A Shattered Mind
by meaninglessmonotony
Summary: Begins during Jack's recruitment mission and will span beyond ME2. Shepard unwittingly releases a madman who becomes obsessed with her. Alternating viewpoints, eventual Femshep/Joker. T for language, violence, and suggestion. EDIT: chapter 29 and 30 are up, after a long hiatus!
1. Escape

Shattered Minds

He was to be beaten again.

He licked his lips in anticipation as the guards arrived. Soon he'd feel them—explosions of anger at his stomach, back, head. Soon he'd hear them—strident voices beginning with jeering insults which rapidly deteriorated to harsh grunts of sadistic effort. Soon he'd taste their adrenaline—metallic and sharp over the heavy greasiness of their anger and dark secret pleasure.

He closed his eyes.

It would be beautiful.

Just a few hours ago, he had Freed another prisoner from the brute and fleshy entrapments of his body, using a plastic spoon to loose crimson tides from a sallow throat. He was not uncaring, he was indeed magnanimous.

The problem, he mused, a placid smile spreading to greet the approaching guards, was Purgatory. Here, he was limited to the Unworthy and the Unclean—evil, evil men and their corrupt guards had no right to his Gift. Still, when one is Bound by Duty, one cannot complain.

He had Faith. He would be free to reward the Good—he had dreamed it. A scarlet phoenix would come and loose a conflagration upon this mire of decay and he would rise—reforged and resplendent—to continue his Duty.

He shut his lids but Saw the Glory-that-would-come.

A gauntleted arm gripped his shoulder harshly and spun him about.

A booted foot slammed into his flesh.

It would be beautiful.

The blows rained down.

Billy lost himself in ecstasy.

….. … ….. … … …

It had not been long—or had it? He could not track time in this place of never-ending gray—when the shadows of New and Unfamiliar people crossed his cell. Between blows, Billy chanced a look to the viewing window and his heart nearly stopped.

A woman. A woman in armor as red as the Fluid of Life. Beside her, a scarred turian in blue and a slender salarian in strange uniform. A sign, surely a sign! He forgot to hide his pleasure and a boot caught him in the face.

Beautiful whirling explosions of black and yellow danced in his head and he opened himself for more.

_**Yes!**_ He cried inwardly, _**Yes!**_ The acceptance of fleshy pain would make him Pure and all the more worthy to continue his work.

The blows stopped.

No, no, why? He was Worthy!

Billy looked out the clear wall and Saw—the woman had stopped it. Her copper hair curled to her shoulders, her eyes were green. Green! There was no green in Purgatory and it was Beautiful. But this green was cold, disapproving.

She had stopped it. She had Judged him and he had failed.

No! She turned away without a backward glance and her companions fell in line. Billy rushed the glass to watch her go, palms at the barrier, searching.

She would Know. He lusted for her then, the only woman he'd seen in years, but not in the pathetic, carnal, animal way that many of his fellow inmates surely did. He would find her and show her his Work, show her his Worth, and then he would Free her. The thought excited him and, as she moved down the corridor, he began planning the event of her Release.

… … ….. ..… … …

Alarms screeched, red, beautiful red, lights strobed. Something had happened and he knew the woman was at the heart of it. Doglike mechs and frenzied guards rushed by.

He could not smell them or hear them through the glass, but he knew that they had the static-sweat smell of fear and that their voices cracked with earnest.

Red. Red. Red. The flashes were mesmerizing. He watched them dutifully in his chamber of silence.

More guards and mechs sped past—moving in and out of view like shades in a dream.

This was a good dream.

The station groaned beneath him, around him. A sign. He stepped to the barrier and put one long finger against it. It hissed open and a terrible sun blazed in his heart. He was free.

So, he noted mildly, were his fellows. No matter, he shrugged. They were Lower Beings, Unworthy, and would keep the guards distracted.

He ran down metal halls, rejoicing in the strength of his limbs, the slight burn and stretch of wonderful activity. Billy's breath rasped in his narrow chest and his heart beat thunderously. He could feel his own blood, the sacred and savory Fluid of Life, rush through him. It was beautiful.

Billy came across the bodies of guards and the twisted remains of mechs. They were littered across the hallway like…like…he searched for an appropriate phrase and was saddened when he could not find it.

He had always loved words, Billy had, always loved the various twists and turns they made in one's mind, the streaky pictures they painted. In the beginning, he had gifted the Worthy before and after their release, crooning exquisite words, always words, to calm them and honor them. But for some reason they had never been grateful for his Care, never appreciated his Art, and often spoiled his words with their inelegant screams. No matter.

He searched the bodies and found several acceptable weapons—a sleek rifle, a solid heavy pistol, and plenty of heat sinks. He secured the extra clips in the deep pockets of his jumpsuit and held the guns distastefully. So little Art in them. A knife was far better—cleaner, more intimate—but no one had a knife so, as was his lot, he stoically made do.

Billy did not know which way to go—the ugly sounds of amateurish scrapping came from all directions. Left, right, or back the way he came.

He chose right.

He loped down the corridors, settling into a rhythm, largely left alone by the other prisoners. One snarled and grabbed at the rifle he'd slung across his back. Billy shot him in the head with the pistol. Gore flew through the air—chips of gleaming white bone, ribbons of beautiful scarlet, chunks of shamefully pink-gray brain.

Billy moved on, cutting over the orange pit. He paused at the window.

Flames flickered below, beautiful tongues of red-orange-yellow-white, spitting shreds of black-gray, slate-gray, dove-gray smoke. Figures moved around the flames, around the still and baleful corpses of heavy mechs and blue-armored prison guards, streaks of death rattling from their weapons. It was the woman in red again, and her team.

She was so Perfect—her movements were efficient and fluid and her determined expression never faltered. Guard after guard after mech fell beneath her and her companions—she Released many of the Unworthy.

He pressed against the glass again, reaching out with his mind and his purpose. She dealt Death, like him, but was not as discerning. A guard far away fired at an innocuous canister in front of her. A fireball enveloped her.

Billy's hands clenched. No! She was his Other, she could not—

The red-armored figure flew through the flames and was frozen in Billy's mind. Her copper hair streamed behind her, her green eyes were dark and piercing, her face was drawn, fearsome. In that instant he knew—she was the Phoenix, come to set him free.

"Beautiful." He whispered on the glass as she vaulted a crate and shot a surprised guard in the heart.

He stroked the smooth pane as if it were her flesh. "Beautiful."

He would find her and repay her in the only way he knew how.

Beneath him, she looked up, met his gaze, and he felt an electric shock, pleasantly painful, crack at his spine. Her eyes, beautiful deadly eyes, narrowed, and she coolly raised her weapon (a heavy pistol, he noticed numbly, fingers tightening on the one he carried) and fired one precise shot that hit the glass in front of his face. Cracks spiderwebbed from the impact and he felt their rough divides in awe.

She Knew him—she could tell he was Worthy.

While the thought was pleasurable and flattering, he was not ready for Release. He had so much work to do.

Over the loudspeakers, a turian voice was yelling for the blood of a "Shepard". Her name. It had to be.

Shepard. Billy savored the word like a delicate aroma—to be fully inhaled and never forgotten. Shepard. It was beautiful.

He lost sight of the Phoenix—her absence freed his legs and he broke into a run down the corridor again, moving ever towards the escape pods he'd heard a dying guard plead for. Shepard. Soon.


	2. Business as Usual

Commander Myla Shepard stalked through the Normandy's airlock, trying to swallow her anger. The half-naked biotic in front of her strode confidently onto the ship, casting a calculating glance towards the cockpit that did not go unnoticed by the ex-marine.

She planted herself firmly between Jack and the way to her pilot. Wordlessly, she gestured towards the Command and Information Center, but gave a thin smile to temper her less-than-welcoming body language. The younger woman sneered and moved to the elevator. As she followed, Shepard decided against the traditional meet-and-greet tour.

Shepard briefed Subject Zero on the way down to Engineering, still studying the biotic for a threat. She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep tonight.

Jack was sullen, openly hostile, and, worst of all, she didn't give a damn about anyone but her. Not a team player, this one. Shepard wondered how she'd be able to motivate her to work with Cerberus uniforms, much less to go on a suicide mission.

She dropped Jack off at her new quarters, gave Kenneth and Gabi a quick warning, and checked to make sure Zaeed wasn't up to anything dangerous. Finally, she took the damnably slow elevator back up to the CIC, feeling the anger and frustration build.

Out the door, past the Galaxy Map ("No new messages for you, Commander!") and up the ridiculously long hall. Her pilot turned to her with a flippant grin.

"Great, Commander, just great. Now we've got a psychotic biotic superwoman who hates the organization that owns our asses. Are you _actually_ crazy, or does it just sorta gravitate around you?"

She sighed and ran a hand over her hair, "Come to think of it, probably both. A lot of both. Mind if I vent?"

"Commander, of course I'll listen. Do you know why?" His question was prompting.

"Because you're my friend?" She grinned and leaned against the sloping gray wall.

"Nah, I can't run away. Talk."

She told him about that backstabbing turian bastard, about the Illusive Man's arrogance and stupidity (first about recruiting Jack, then in general terms), and about the frightening shift in Garrus's attitude and personality.

When she'd finished, he nodded slowly, like he always did. She smiled suddenly, knowing that she never would've dreamed of unloading so…completely before…well, before her death. Shepard still wasn't sure she was entirely comfortable with it now, didn't know if he was entirely comfortable with it, but ever since her first rant before docking on Omega, he'd seemed so open and it felt almost natural.

Plus, there was an obvious flexibility in the general regulations now, and she didn't have that constant nagging voice in the back of her mind, always crying 'Fraternization! Court-martial!' whenever she looked at a friendly crewmember. Now, here, she was free to look at whomever she chose in whatever way she liked. It was the kind of freedom that was good just to have—no need to worry or even to exercise it. Still, whenever she looked too deeply into her helmsman's green eyes, that voice started to whisper insistently.

He cleared his throat, bringing her internal musings to an end. Here came that borderline insubordinate and inarguably sarcastic feedback she secretly treasured.

"Commander, what will you do when all this is over?"

She blinked, surprised at his seriousness. "I…hadn't given it much thought."

"Humor me. Think now."

"I'm not really comfortable with—"

"Oh c'mon," he laughed, "You're fine with bitching to me about every last detail about the _now_ and you never talk about the _future_. You owe me a little speculation."

"Mr. Moreau, it is insensitive to press a subject when the—" Without turning his chair or looking away from Shepard, Joker slapped the AI's mute button. He arched an eyebrow expectantly.

Shepard smiled reluctantly, already turning to go, "I don't like to jinx myself, Joker. Let's focus on the now so we can _have_ a future."

"Aw, you're no fun, Shepard!" He called after her and she could hear the grin in his voice, "This isn't over!"

She bit her lip sadly as she walked away. He was right—it wasn't over and it wouldn't be for a long time. She tried so hard to avoid thinking about the possible future. The glass was half-empty—the Reapers would be nigh-impossible to defeat, and even if they _did_ avert destruction by inorganic super-race, the battle would likely result in her death or those of her crew. Looking eagerly ahead was just setting herself up for devastation later. It'd be bad enough without building golden dreams to be torn down.

She rubbed the back of her neck and headed down to the elevator to brief Miranda before trying to rest. No use chasing half-formed hopes when reality was grit on your cheek, blood in your mouth, and a heavy pistol in your hand.

Still, as she lay uselessly on her twisted sheets in hopes of sleep, she found herself wondering. Maybe…maybe next time she'd have an answer for him.

...

Gardner smiled sympathetically as he handed her a plate of what, in loosest possible terms, constituted breakfast aboard the Normandy SR2.

"Hope you like eggs, Commander."

_If I did, I'd hate this slop._ She smiled politely, swallowed the gag reflex when the noxious stench reached her nose, and carried the unsavory breakfast over to the single mess table. _Poor planning, that. They have the funds and space for a giant aquarium in my quarters but can't be bothered to put in more than one table for grub?_

It was early by Cerberus standards—there were only two crewmembers already seated, who gave her cautiously friendly nods. They hadn't gotten used to her yet. She returned the greeting gesture, but sighed inwardly. The worst part about a reputation was that people thought they knew you.

She started to stir the artificial eggs with her fork, but the mushy and uneven reluctance of the stuff was so vile, she decided to let it congeal.

"It's best t' jus' close yer eyes an' get I' over with," offered the man closest to her. Engineer Kenneth in his strong Scottish brogue.

Shepard rolled her eyes, "That's what my drill sergeant used to say about resetting bones."

"Surviving Gardner's cooking is more painful by far," remarked the other crewman. He was tall and solidly built; Asian with a wide, friendly face. _Able Connors_, she remembered.

She grinned appreciatively and called back over her shoulder at Gardner.

"Cooky, you'll get those high-grade ingredients if it's the last thing I do!"

"It's not that bad, is it?" His rough voice sounded hurt.

"Rupert, if'n she takes a single bite 'o yer vile concoction, _tha'_ will be the last thing she does!"

Connors and Shepard laughed as the bickering escalated, and she even managed to choke down a few forkfuls. Gotta keep the machine running.

A slim salarian in a strange combination of armor and lab suit entered the mess hall.

"Good morning, Mordin." Shepard grinned at the eccentric alien. Connors gave him a wave, and Kenneth and the disgruntled cook halted their back-and-forth.

Mordin sniffed, " 'Morning' on a starship is a relative term—sleep cycles are regulated by shifts and not the movement of stars. Regardless, the sentiment is appreciated. Thank you, Commander Shepard."

"Saints a'wailin'…couldn't ye jus' say 'good mornin'' back, professor?" The Scot's eyes were wide and incredulous.

Mordin cocked his head, mismatched horns casting odd shadows across his face, "Specificity and application of knowledge, when combined with scientific analysis or terminology is not a negative occurrence. You may even learn something, although that event seems unlikely."

"Ach." Kenneth put his head down on the table in despair.

"Mr. Solus," Gardner leaned over his counter, "what's your opinion of my cooking?"

Shepard hid her face in her hands. _Bad move,_ she thought.

"Hm." The alien considered for a few seconds—an inordinately long time for him, "At a physiological level, nutritionally acceptable. Palatably, however, borderline inedible. The constraints of social etiquette prevent me from elaborating further."

"See?" The cook brandished a spatula towards Kenneth, "He likes it!"

All three other humans laughed. Mordin gave his little twitch-smile and collected a plate from Gardner.

He sniffed it experimentally and jerked his head back swiftly. He walked quickly away from Rupert's counter, back to the elevator, and Shepard caught his low mutterings: "Hm, strange olfactory-gastronomical effect. Must take this up to the lab. Need samples for diagnosis…no longer hungry."

Shepard smirked and shoveled in a few more bites. Noxious taste aside, she needed the fuel for today's mission. The Normandy had received a troubling signal—static punctuated by garbled commands and screams—from a small nearby planet. She intended to investigate, help if she could. It would also be a good opportunity to test her newest team-member.

...

"Jack! Lay down cover fire for Zaeed! Zaeed—take the left position!" Shepard yelled into her mic, vaulting over a low boulder.

The biotic screamed as she strafed her SMG into the unending masses of husks, and Zaeed pushed forward to take a new cover position. Shepard waved her omnitool and three advancing husks burst into flame. She felt a grin of adrenaline spread across her face, she saw it spread on Jack's lips and splitting Zaeed's craggy mug. They were fighters—it wasn't right, it wasn't how she was trained, but it was instinctive. Killing husks felt good—it bled off the frustration and guilt she felt because she'd been too late to save the colonists and scientists.

The masses of zombies slowed, and Shepard took advantage of that pause to advance her team further down the dark mine. The dark, the damp, the stink—a primal scream stabbed at the base of her skull, but she shut it out. This place had to burn. She had charges in one of her belt-pouches—if she found the right place, she could trigger a cave-in.

She glanced to her squad to make sure none had been injured. Nope. Good. Grit crunched under her feet, sprayed up around her red-armored calves. Her breath burned in her chest, echoed in her ears. Her muscles hummed with warmth and she felt her heart sing. It was good to know she could still rely on her body, on her strength and aim.

They came to a large chamber, and Shepard could see a strange structure at the back. That was it. She shouted commands to Jack and Zaeed, and they moved in, dispensing a second death with each squeeze of a trigger or biotically reinforced wave of a hand. It was easy. She was almost disappointed. They fought their way through the chamber—cries of effort and elated anger echoing off the craggy rock of the cavern, staccato howls and rasping moans fell and died at their feet among the slight layers of mist.

They sprinted into the structure and skidded to a stop. A colossal artifact stood tucked away in a partial antechamber. Blue light glowed softly, twisted metal glimmered darkly. Shepard shivered and glared at it, she could feel evil radiating from it. A burst of gunfire snapped her back to the task at hand—more husks were coming.

She ripped the charges from her belt and set them around the abomination. Fingers steady, breath even. There.

"Everybody out!" She bellowed, spinning to drop five husks with precise shots.

"No, I thought I'd stay here a bit longer," drawled Zaeed, tucking away his shotgun.

"Less talk, more fucking moving!" Jack screamed gleefully. She raised her blue-glowing arm and a wave of power swept lurching figures from their path that several exploded at the initial contact.

They raced down the twisting tunnels and small chambers until the exit portal jogged into view. Wave the omnitool—click, crack, sky, out! They tumbled out of the mineshaft just as a tremendous explosion sent rocks, dust, and unmentionable fragments out the exit in a vicious plume.


	3. Development

**A/N: This chapter is mainly to continue the contrast between Shepard and Billy as well as to set up a few mini-plot points: the effects of battle/her squad, Shepard's emotional oddness, and her game with Joker. I'm not particularly happy with it and I'll probably come back to it, but please don't let this be the chapter that stops you reading this "story".**

Shepard heard Jack laughing, glanced to the side and caught a grin from Zaeed. She nodded, chest heaving. There was nothing else to do here. She pressed the side of her helmet.

"We're done, Joker, ready for pick-up."

"Aye-aye, Commander. I'll get someone on it right away."

She felt a flutter and a heat at his voice, and turned away from her squad, suddenly embarrassed. "Uh, do you think you could do it yourself? I mean, just practice with the shuttle." Static.

She licked her lips.

"Sure, Commander, see you in a minute." A slight tone of uncertainty, but he trusted her. She felt bad—why did she ask him to fly the shuttle? Why did she want—no, need—to see him now?

Adrenaline still coursed through her system. Nature's high. She mentally reviewed the mission, not liking this new reckless and uninhibited emotion. She'd never felt this before—she'd always tried to keep cool and distant from the heat of battle, she certainly never felt—

"Damn, Shepard, that was hot!" Jack slapped her hands together, a feral grin on her face. "I'm hungry. Let's find something else to kill or eat or…damn that felt good. Glad I signed on."

Zaeed grunted, "S'nice to just knock that outta yer system every now and then. Let shit build up and ya get damaged."

Jack ran a hand over a tattooed forearm, "Better than any drugs I've ever been on."

"Slaughter for slaughter's sake is pointless," remarked Shepard automatically, "We got some data, minerals, and avenged a few colonists—that's what matters."

Jack snorted, "Buzzkill. You need to get laid, Shepard."

Zaeed raised an eyebrow and Shepard flushed. She decided to ignore that particular comment.

"You guys did great in there," she continued, "Jack, you have a tendency to aim left—we can work on that on the practice range. Zaeed, you're leaving your right hip wide open, watch it. Other than that, excellent."

Jack rolled her eyes and Shepard was spared another comment on her private life by the arrival of the shuttle. She studied its descent—undeniably more graceful than when the Cerberus pilot, Gainey, was at the helm. It touched down with barely a sound and the hatch hissed open.

"C'mon guys, home we go." She ducked into the low entry, heard Jack and Zaeed file in behind her.

"What's up?" Joker limped into the passenger area, concern in his green eyes.

"Shepard needs to get laid," cracked Jack, settling heavily into a seat. Zaeed gave a barking laugh.

Shepard pulled off her helmet so she could glare at them properly.

"I'm honored, Commander, but not in front of the kids," Joker grinned.

"Very funny." She pointed up to the pilot's cabin. "Let's see you bring her back to the SR2."

He arched an eyebrow, "You were serious about testing me? I can fly this little bucket through the eye of a needle going backwards with my eyes shut. One-handed. While whistling Beethoven's fifth. And jumping on a pogo-stick."

"Your arrogance is duly noted, Lieutenant, now get." She shooed him away, grinning widely. He shrugged and left the passenger section, giving her a sarcastic salute.

"Damn, I love explosions," sighed Zaeed, leaning back and closing his eyes, "Always takes me back to this time on Illium…"

Jack sneered, but Shepard could see she was intent on the old merc's story. She left them and moved up to the "cockpit", standing at parade-rest behind the pilot's chair.

"Sheesh, Commander, at least sit down. We have a perfectly good copilot seat just waiting for a little attention."

She settled down, looking at his profile. His green eyes flashed from console to readout to viewport and back, fingers dancing over the interface, but he had time to flash her a smile.

"So _please_ tell me I'm not up for evaluation—if all else fails, I can cook a damn sight better than Gardner."

"Hm," she tapped a finger against her lips, "Actually, I think the crew would appreciate a new cook more than your piloting skills."

He snorted, "Did you get the eggs today?"

"Blech." She made a face, glad that the queasy prickly feeling was ebbing. The he turned fully to her and it spiked.

"I think he's a deep-cover agent—sent to infiltrate your crew, poison and demoralize us." His voice was low, mock-conspiratorial.

She laughed, "Nah, once I get him those ingredients it'll be better, I promise."

"And if it isn't?" He quirked an eyebrow suggestively.

"I'll put you on mess duty." She folded her arms and flicked a hand to indicate the controls, "Could you at least pretend to look at these things every now and then? Just to keep me sane?"

"Aw, I know where the important bits are." He touched her shoulder and pointed at a few buttons. "Stop. Go. Eject. Self-destruct. Twinkie. We're good."

"Do you really have a snack button?" Cerberus and civilian standards were so drastically different from Alliance regs, it may have been a legitimate function.

He snickered, "No. If it did, I'd eat it in here instead of in the mess."

She watched him work, watched the shuttle cut smoothly through clouds and exit the planet's atmosphere. He was so good at what he did.

"A credit for your thoughts?"

"Um, I think I've found my squad," she lied. No need to further inflate his ego.

"Really? The mercenary and the psycho?"

"They complement each other, actually, and we're a strong team." She thought of that strange, base emotion, still lurking in her consciousness.

"How so? Keep in mind, I'm an artist of aviation and aeronautics—not a jarhead like you."

"Well, our strengths are varied—Jack has the most biotic power I've ever seen, I'm a strong tech and sniper, and Zaeed is amazing with his shotgun. Between us, we've got close, specialized, and long-range combat covered."

"Ah," he nodded, visibly biting down on a grin.

"What?" He shook his head. "What?"

"You like how he handles his weapon!" Joker laughed. Shepard slapped his shoulder, now hiding her own smile.

"Silence, minion!" She stole his hat, "I've seen you handle _your_ 'weapon'—anything would seem impressive after that." Not true—she'd never actually _caught_ him doing anything…awkward—but it seemed like a good rebuttal.

"Shit, Shepard, I need a warning system or something," he was blushing—she'd never seen him blush. "Gimme back my hat."

That feeling was back. "Come and get it." She pinched the brim and turned it cheekily to the side.

He arched an eyebrow at her, "Are you serious?"

She sighed, "I guess you don't want your hat back, Mr. Moreau."

"Oh no," he groaned, "Don't call me that, the _thing_ calls me that. Completely ruined some of my fantasies, too."

He checked the viewscreen and then his controls, glanced quickly back to her. _Green, green, green,_ her thoughts sang happily, giving in to that strange feeling.

"Last chance to surrender, Commander."

"Goonies never say die!" She grinned, curling her arms protectively over her head and the hat.

"Right." He tapped a few buttons and stood up, stretching an arm cautiously, "This is your final warning."

"I think it looks better on me, don't you?" She smirked and resettled it.

He rolled his eyes and came over to the side of her chair, tugging at her wrists.

"No, my Precious!" Shepard pulled her arms to the side, and he slipped slightly, threw one leg over the chair for a more balanced stance. He was straddling her now. Her heart beat faster and that feeling intensified.

He was blushing again, "Shit. Sorry, Commander, I—"

She pulled her wrists back, drawing him closer. "It's still my hat, Lieutenant."

He blinked, then grinned, "Not for long." He leaned forward suddenly, and took the brim of his cap between his teeth, jerking his head up to lift it from hers.

"No!" She yelped, laughing, straining upwards to try and catch it back. She twisted her arms, gently breaking his grip, and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him down to her.

"Mmph, 'oo 'ayt!" He grunted from around the cap, hands pinning her shoulders. His head was close to hers and the hat brushed her nose. On an impulse, she growled and bit it, tugging it back to her.

"Whoa, Shepard, put a sock on the door or something!" Jack's voice was simultaneously gloating and disgusted.

They froze and Shepard blushed, thinking how they must look. She delicately opened her mouth, released his shoulders.

"'Ank 'oo." He winked and let her go, backing off and taking his hat from between his teeth. "Told ya I'd get it back."

"Maybe this time, Joker," She grinned brazenly, feeling reckless again, "But sooner or later, that hat will be mine."

He smirked, "Come and get it, Commander." The Normandy loomed into view and he turned back to his controls, climbing gingerly back into the pilot's chair.

Jack leaned against Shepard's seat, "I was gonna ask the ETA, but I'm guessing it's pretty damn soon." She pushed away and went back to the passenger area.

Shepard looked at her pilot, still grinning from their game. His green eyes flashed to hers, something hungry quickly replaced by the customary sarcastic gleam. "You better tend to your flock, Shepard. I don't want those two getting restless."

She sighed and got up. He caught her armored arm. "Hey, about my evaluation? I prefer gold stars to happy face stickers."

"Duly noted, Joker." She grinned and left him.


	4. The Hunter

Why wasn't she coming? Why hadn't she Found him? He'd crash-landed on this little planet two days ago—surely she knew. His Phoenix would come.

Billy realized then that he didn't know her material identity—Shepard. Maybe she didn't come to him because she couldn't or…what if he was Unworthy after all? No. He was Worthy, he was sure of it. He just needed to find her, convince her.

All he had was a name and a mental image—Shepard. A human woman with copper hair and pale green eyes. A warrior. A leader. Shepard.

He travelled for a half-day from his crash-site, moving East towards the planet's rising suns, catching and eating a few native rabbit-like creatures as he went. The grasses were long, soft, sighing in the light sweet breeze. The earth was warm and fragrant, almost spongy beneath his bare feet. So beautiful, so Pure. When the smallest of the suns was setting, he crested a ridge and saw, in the grassy valley below, a small settlement. Beautiful.

When it was dark, he snuck down to the little village, bare feet whispering in the dark cool grass. So much color here—greens and blues and purples—so different from the gray, brown, red of Purgatory. It was so…

The small buildings were low and obviously some kind of adobe with gaping windows that were little more than black holes in the walls. He slipped effortlessly through one, easing his weight onto his toes, calves, thighs. It was easy.

He waited for a time, letting his eyes adjust as much as they would, breathing noiselessly from his mouth, opening himself to the little house and its inhabitants, listening to the slightest sounds and sighs. He flexed his fingers. Time to Know. He crept from room to room, slowly, so slowly, memorizing every piece of furniture, every door and window. Three bedrooms—a young couple, a teenage daughter, a boy-child. All asleep.

He finished exploring the rooms and returned to the kitchen, selecting a fine-edged knife. They were Pure. They were Worthy. Furthermore, they could not be witnesses.

….

He ran a finger down the length of the blade, licking delicately at the crimson stain it left on his fingers. It had been sweet, smooth—no interruptions or complications. He hadn't realized how much he had missed his Work.

Long fingers found a small lamp—oil. He retraced his steps, back to the kitchen. Matches. Billy struck one and admired the simplicity-complexity of the little flame. Fire. His Phoenix. Beautiful.

Billy lit the lamp and carried it through the little home, searching for an extranet terminal. Despite the seemingly primitive nature of the settlement, there was a very modern model in what had been, he assumed, the workroom.

He activated it eagerly, typing "Shepard" into the search engine with the reddest label.

Not "John"…not "Ambassador Joyce"…not…wait, yes.

Commander Myla Shepard, formerly of the human Alliance, received military distinction after the events of Akuze and, more recently, an attack on the Citadel. That gave Billy pause. He'd been imprisoned in Purgatory for many years and had never heard of the geth attack. He moved on. An N7 operative. The first human Specter. Currently listed as missing in action, presumed dead, since two years ago.

His Phoenix was alive now, no doubt. Risen from the ashes. Beautiful.

He traced the small picture by her biography with the edge of his bloody knife. This was of no use to him. She had gotten to Purgatory—she had a ship. She had high-grade weaponry and armor—she had money. Since she was still listed as MIA, she had to be working in the private sector. He tapped the blade against his teeth.

Billy needed a hacker.

Finding a technologically gifted individual with the necessary means would doubtless be an impossibility in this settlement. He accessed a local geographical guide, located the nearest hub-city, and logged off. He found a sturdy sack and loaded it with dried food and a couple canisters of water for the trip. He went back to the adult bedroom and took both credit chits, ignoring the silent forms on the bloody sheets.

He was confident. He was ready.

He took a final meal in that dark, still house, using the bloody knife to cut his bread, meat, fruit, and cheese. It was beautiful—his first taste of real food in years. A silver tear trickled down his cheek. The salty liquid dripped onto his dry bread, soaked in with a black bloodstain. He tasted the sacrament delicately. Beautiful.

….

"Okay, man, I'll do it! I'll find it, man, I swear! D-don't kill me, please, don't kill me!" The young man sobbed pitifully, clutching his face. Blood seeped between his fingers.

Billy waved the knife elegantly. "Please do not beg. It will not help you find me the name and the extranet tag and address of the vessel that carries Commander Shepard."

The hacker's cries intensified, his shoulders shaking intensely.

"Oh, God! I can't, man, she's dead! Oh, God, please! Don't you get it?"

His mewling was unseemly. Wormlike. Billy grabbed him by the throat and slammed his head down on the dirty apartment floor.

"Listen to me very carefully. She lives—I have seen her. I have business with her. You will find the information I need. You will stop crying or I will mark your face again."

The man bit his lip and choked, gulped, trying to swallow his fear. He lowered his hands from his face and Billy could admire his work. A thin slash cut from the Unworthy's left cheek to the corner of his jaw. Clean, fresh, a perfect line of red against cinnamon skin. Beautiful. It would look better with symmetry.

"Okay, I…I can try." The words were halting, cautious. Billy smiled peaceably and gestured towards the extranet terminal in the corner.

The hacker stood gingerly and, seeing that Billy wasn't going to hurt him again, moved to the terminal. His fingers were trembling, slick with his own blood, but once he'd logged on, he grew calmer, reassured by the familiar movements. Billy closed his eyes while the Unworthy searched. Meditation promoted clarity and focus—helped strengthen the Mind and control the Body.

Soon, Shepard.

He flicked the knife, sending droplets of scarlet spattering against the dove-gray wall. The little spots were so bright, so beautiful, part of his Art. Blood was his paint, scars were his signature, the Worthy were his canvas. The thought gave him pause.

Something cool and lyrical whispered darkly in the recesses of his mind. Billy licked the knife slowly, letting the idea murmur to him and develop.

Oh yes, she would Know him, and he her. It was only natural that he should show his gratitude, his anticipation.

Soon, Shepard.

The young man had the data, waved Billy over excitedly, eager to be freed. Billy checked to ensure that it was valid, then turned and smiled to the other man. He felt magnanimous. He hefted the knife and brought it down once, twice, seven times, Freeing the Unworthy's soul. This apartment was Unclean. He had to find a new place from which to signal his Phoenix. But first, he crouched by the still-warm corpse, he should practice his lettering.


	5. Surreal

**A/N: Sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, it just helps account for some of Shepard's new instability and helps tie in with some of her personal issues/plot points. Also, the Kelly conversation is awkward and contrived—if you could review with some editing advice, I would love you and give you a space cookie.**

Blood. She blinked, failing to comprehend the wetness on her fingers. What-?

She gingerly examined herself, leaving pale streaks of soap after smooth flesh was found unbroken. The shower continued its stream of hot water, unaware that something very strange had happened to her. She looked down to her feet, saw crimson swirling among the clear water.

It clicked.

She fell against the shower wall, shocked. This hadn't happened for years, not since…but it was happening now. Joy, fear, confusion—all whirling in her heart.

Miranda. She would know.

Shepard finished her shower at a speed normally reserved for evacuating soon-to-be-rubble facilities. She grabbed a sanitation pad from the stash near the sink (praise civvie standards! Alliance regs had confined such toiletries to the medbay for regulated dispensation through the doctor) and dressed hastily.

Sprinting down corridors, past confused, surprised, laughing crew, and stopping just outside the perfect woman's office. Myla gulped. Did she-? She had to know. She pressed the entry keypad and the door whirred open.

Lawson looked up from her extranet terminal, a frown creasing her flawless brow. She half-stood.

"Shepard?" The Australian accent was particularly strong when Miranda was peeved.

Myla tucked a strand of still-wet copper hair behind one ear and started forward, changed her mind, and stood uncertainly in the threshold. "Miranda, I…I'm on my period."

The other woman's lips quirked, "Congratulations, Commander. What can I do for you?"

"No, you don't understand," Shepard found a chair and sank into it, "I haven't…been in this position for…since Akuze."

Miranda frowned, and Shepard could see a flash of curiosity quickly smothered by pride in her gray eyes. Shepard had never told anyone outside of a medbay, but this woman had rebuilt her.

"I was bitten—"Shepard indicated her abdomen with a long finger, tracing scars she remembered but no longer carried, "The thresher venom set in, the wound was infected. My…by the time I was rescued, they had to operate and remove my, um, ovaries."

Miranda brushed a lock of dark hair from her clear gray eyes. There was no sign of embarrassment.

"I see," she said slowly, "Well, when we received your remains, there was very little of your…soft tissue remaining. We had to clone organs separately in many cases—building from genetic material. That's also why you have no residual scarring from your…previous life."

"So…" Shepard wouldn't, couldn't hope, "Can I-? Am I able to…"

"Have children?" Miranda's face softened and her eyes shone with an intense longing.

Shepard nodded breathlessly.

"Yes. As long as you were genetically able to before." The other woman looked down at her fingers, folded primly on the cool surface of her desk.

"Thank you," whispered Myla, coming to her side and giving her a soft hug around the shoulders. The brunette flinched, her hair falling forward like a curtain, but she leaned into the embrace. Her frame shook silently. Both women were crying.

"Thank you."

….

"Hello Commander!"

"Hey Kelly, have you got a minute?"

"Sure—what do you need?" The younger woman smiled earnestly.

"Could you come up to my quarters for a minute? I have some questions."

Kelly arched an eyebrow and grinned, "Business or pleasure, Commander?"

Myla blanched but the other woman laughed and laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder, "Only joking, Commander. Normally you'd have been able to tell."

They entered the elevator and Shepard thumbed the button for the first floor. She leaned back in the corner of the elevator and folded her arms. Kelly stood comfortably, one hand tucked by her side and the other tapping at her lip thoughtfully.

"What's troubling you?" Kelly's voice was calm, serious. Psychologist mode. Oh well, this was why she'd asked Chambers.

"On the last mission, I felt…different."

"How so?"

"More, I don't know," she closed her eyes, trying to recapture those emotions, "excited, reckless. Something between anger and joy. I could see it on Jack's face…and Zaeed's."

"So why is this a problem? I'd imagine it would be more worrisome if you didn't feel anything."

The elevator stopped, opened. Shepard led Chambers into her cabin and sat on a couch. The other woman followed suit, crossing her legs.

"Because," Shepard tried to find a way to explain it in a way that a civilian could understand, "Killing enemies isn't supposed to be a rush—it's about necessity and a greater cause. I was having fun. When you're trained to kill, you learn the value of life—ideally, you're less inclined to shoot without knowing it has to be done."

Kelly smiled, "So you're worried that your emotions have changed in a way that demeans your character and cause?"

Shepard sighed, "Partly. I just…it scares me to think that I like it now. What if I can't stop? I don't want my people dying because I led them into a slaughter for an adrenaline rush."

"That sounds like two different issues," Kelly held up a finger, "You don't want to become a blood-addict, killing for fun," she raised a second, "and you don't want to be responsible for needless death of the people under your command."

Myla nodded slightly. Two issues she knew she had. There were countless others, though.

"I think those are fears all military commanders carry in their hearts," Kelly said slowly, "Losing themselves to a battle-lust and losing their friends and charges. Those are natural fears—it's good that you have them because it means you still care. I think the only thing you can do is make sure you get the job done as quickly and as cleanly as you can, which is what you do already."

That was oddly comforting to Shepard's marine mentality. Find the objective and accomplish it. Simplicity. Kelly switched her legs.

"Um, also, you know that we are influenced by the people we're with. Jack and Zaeed—they kill for pleasure and money respectively. Their morals and emotions concerning the subject may, therefore, be a little warped. If what you feel scares you that badly, I'd advise you take a different team on your missions.

Her green eyes were wide and honest. Myla bit her lip and shook her head, ""I think I can handle it now that I've talked about it. Besides, we're an effective little team. Thanks, Kelly."

The solemn academic demeanor evaporated and Kelly's chipper gin spread wide.

"Anytime, Commander. Is there anything else you'd like to talk about?"

Shepard narrowed her eyes. "I don't think so, Kelly." She had an idea where her yeoman might be headed. Kelly had started no less than thirty-one scuttlebutt rumors concerning the love lives of either Shepard or members of her team with the occasional appearances of Normandy crew.

"Oh, please!" Kelly gestured at the elevator, "That thing takes forever and we've only been up here for a little bit."

Shepard sighed. She had a point about the damn elevator. "What do you want to talk about?"

Kelly beamed happily, "Can I just ask you a few questions?"

"That's one."

"…Is that a yes?"

"That's two."

Kelly gave Shepard a mock frown. "What's your favorite color?"

"Hm. Green." Myla smiled, reminding herself to bring supplies on her next hat raid.

Kelly nodded, brow rankled in thought, "If you could have any superpower—"

"Shape-shifting." Easy. She used to think about that one all the time on Mindoir.

"Leather or lace?" Kelly raised her eyebrows suggestively and Shepard laughed in spite of herself.

"I guess…leather." She shook her head, grinning. If she heard any S&M rumors—

"Vanilla or chocolate?"

"Ice cream? I haven't had that in forever…vanilla."

"Rain or sunshine?"

"Rain, believe it or not."

"Interesting…okay, sweet or salty?" Kelly drew her legs up to sit crisscrossed.

"It really depends." Shepard leaned back and closed her eyes. This was actually sort of calming. She'd never had a close friend to talk about this sort of thing with.

"Beach or snow?"

"Beach."

"Shotgun or sniper rifle?"

"Sniper rifle." Shepard smirked. She'd always preferred finesse and strategy to—

"Garrus or Jacob?"

Shepard rolled her eyes, "Neither. If we're going to play 'would-you-rather', you may as well give up now."

"Neither? Really? Why not?"

"Look, if you really want to talk about this stuff…" Shepard hesitated, knowing she'd regret it. Kelly's eager smile was so bright—she always seemed too happy whenever anyone talked to her…maybe because people generally didn't talk to her. Myla felt a small wave of pity for her nosy yeoman. "Come have dinner up here tonight and we'll talk more."

"Really?" Kelly beamed, radiating happiness, "Thanks, Commander!"

She turned and danced to the door. It hissed open.

"Kelly!" Shepard called after her. The other woman stopped, turned. "Thanks for helping me."

"It was my pleasure, Commander." Kelly winked and left.

Shepard looked around the empty cabin and put her head in her hands, "Oh, hell, look what you've done now, Myla. 'Boy-talk' for godsakes…"

Shaking her head at the immaturity of her administrative assistant, Shepard stood and tried to find a suitable object to help her in her next attempt to steal her pilot's hat.


	6. Anticipation

The spaceport. Billy was scared. So many people—so many filthy, rotten, Unworthy people. He debated staying, trying to contact and lure his Phoenix from and to this slow little planet, but any doubt of the need to move on vanished when a large blue-and-white gunship hissed down in a nearby docking station. A familiar insignia—impossible! The prison had been Purged, hadn't it?—was emblazoned on the side.

They were here for him. They had to be. He checked compulsively behind each corner, scrutinized every passerby, as he sped to the check station.

A pretty young asari was conducting the weapons search. Beautiful. No tech, just the basic pat-down. He'd been counting on that. He'd taken his wonderful instrument, stuck the blade into a half-loaf of some kind of dark bread, and carefully placed it in his pants. He'd stolen a pair of loose-fitting sweats from that helpful hacker—no suspicious bulging would be visible. He studied the faces of the men who went before him, memorizing the appreciative leers as they checked her out from behind when she'd approved their permission to board. This disgusted him. He felt a swell of anger as he imagined similar attention directed toward his Other, the fiercely beautiful Phoenix. His hands trembled.

Calm, calm, he told himself. He had Plans for her—getting past this checkpoint was essential to ensuring their fruition. When he thought of pressing his knife to her pale throat, it was easy to adopt the lidded glance, the too-wide smirk. The asari rolled her eyes—the majority of those she checked, male and female, gave her that same look.

Her small blue hands patted under his arms, at the base of his spine, high between his inner thighs. They brushed the handle of the knife and she recoiled, eyes snapping to his face. This was the tipping-point—he winked and grinned at her.

"What can I say, beautiful? I'm happy to see you."

She sneered in disgust and ushered him through. He fled into the small ship, swallowing a dribble of vomit.

Close.

Once seated within, he peered out a viewport—the guards were spreading to cover the entrance.

Too late, too late, he though gleefully as the ship's thrusters hummed and spat.

Billy was lifted up, up into the sky and back into space. Away from that Unworthy waste of a planet and those incompetent guards.

He was close now, so close to finding her. He closed his eyes, imagining, anticipating. He wanted to do it with a knife—clean, close, elegant. But…was she truly Worthy? Billy had been reviewing his memories of her—she killed quickly, but did not seem to appreciate the value of her Talent, her Duty, her Gift. Perhaps he should ensure that she was Worthy—merely out of professional courtesy.

The easiest way towards Worth was pain.

**How can I hurt you, Shepard?** He smiled happily and fell asleep—dreaming of blood, bruises, flesh, and screams. It would be beautiful.


	7. Conspiracy

Kelly had brought food from the kitchen ("Don't worry, Commander, I cooked it myself!") and red wine from…somewhere.

Shepard poured while Chambers readied the little table; few preparations were necessary and the food was still steaming gently when the women sat down.

"Well Kelly," Shepard tucked into a surprisingly good crusted meat. She dipped it in the creamy garlic instant potatoes that not even Gardner had managed to ruin. "Shoot away."

"So indelicate Commander," pouted Kelly, nibbling at some alien fruit, "It's more fun to worm it out."

Shepard grinned, taking a sip of wine, "Sorry, I don't generally do this kind of thing. Please _don't_ get directly to whatever questions you wanted to ask."

The yeoman leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Do you have a lover?"

Shepard choked, wine dripped from her nose, "Aw hell, Kelly. No, no I don't."

Chambers cocked her head. "Why not?"

"I…couldn't afford one right now. Me getting emotionally compromised could lead to the failure of any given mission and result in the destruction of life as we know it."

"That sounds rehearsed. Are you afraid of rejection or commitment?"

"Hey," Shepard pointed at the other woman with her fork, "I invited Kelly-the-administrative-assistant, not Kelly-the-psychologist."

"Okay then…why neither Garrus nor Jacob?"

This she could do. She took another drink of wine. "Garrus is a good friend—I helped him figure some stuff out a few years ago. I just…don't think of him like that."

"What about Jacob?"

"Don't get me wrong, he's a nice guy, but he isn't funny or particularly engaging." Shepard had never been one for alcohol, but this wine was surprisingly good.

"But what about his abs?" Kelly raised her eyebrows, grinning.

Shepard laughed, "I've seen enough muscle-bound soldier-types to last me a lifetime, Chambers. It's just not my thing. Plus, he and Miranda aren't quite over."

Kelly nodded, eager to expand on gossip, "I agree. They're always _looking_ at each other."

Shepard snorted. That was hardly grounds to declare inordinate affection.

"So, Jack or Zaeed?"

"You're kidding, right?" Shepard widened her eyes incredulously, "Zaeed is way too old. As far as Jack goes, I'm not…lesbian or bisexual and even if I was, I wouldn't start…that kind of relationship with her." Kelly refilled Myla's glass and Shepard obligingly took another drink. "Thanks. I think Jack would only see it as confirmation that I'm like all the others—she'd leave or try to go pirate. She needs a friend, not a lover."

Kelly nodded, "I agree. I wish she'd talk to me."

"Not a good idea." Shepard smiled sympathetically, "At this point, all she'll see is a smile and a Cerberus uniform. Neither of those are things she trusts."

The yeoman slumped a little and took a tiny forkful of potatoes.

"What about you?" Shepard asked, more trying to fill the gap in conversation than to trigger a confession, "Do you have anyone?"

"Not yet," Kelly looked up and smiled, "But we'll all find the one that completes us sooner or later."

Shepard returned the smile twofold, thinking about a future in which children were definite possibilities.

"Oh, I got another one!" Kelly pressed Shepard's wineglass into her hand, "What about Connors?"

Myla shrugged, "He's a nice guy, but I know nothing about him." She took a deep draught of the wine. She'd never been much of a drinker but with her Cerberus upgrades she doubted it would affect her much. Still, she felt pleasantly warm.

"Kenneth?"

She shook her head, grinning, "I think Gabi would kill me."

Kelly giggled, "It's so funny—they bicker all the time when they have such great chemistry. I think if either just stopped arguing for a second and looked at the other, they'd realize how good they are for each other."

"I'll drink to that." Shepard was feeling a little reckless again. Kelly toasted her, but didn't drink.

Kelly went through seven more crewmen—three of whom Shepard had forgotten—and the wine-bottle stood empty.

"I…assume you're not going to ask me if I'm lusting after Gardner?" Shepard laughed, crossing her legs with difficulty. Hm. Maybe the wine had been stronger than she'd thought.

Kelly laughed with her, "Of course not! Actually, I was going to ask what you thought of Joker."

"Mmm," sighed Shepard, then clapped a hand over her mouth, "Oh shit. Um…" Her mind scrambled sluggishly.

Kelly's eyes shone in triumph, "I knew it! I knew you thought he was hot."

"No, he's more than that," Shepard flapped a hand to dismiss the notion of her pilot as mere eyecandy, "He's…pretty damn funny. Loyal. Honest. I trust him." Her eyes felt heavy. She flopped over on the sofa.

A blurry redhead leaned over her, "I'll get you in bed, Commander. Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

The words lost their meaning as Shepard's consciousness retreated into a blessedly quiet blackness, but a dim portion of her brain sent dull waves of terror rippling ineffectively after it. She fell asleep.


	8. The Makings of a Murderer

Billy twitched in his sleep, small moans escaping his lips.

"No, Dad! Please!"

His memories were perfect. Billy felt every hit in exactly the right spot. He was five years old again. Before he realized his Duty. When he was Unworthy.

_Little Billy writhed on the long dun grass of his home-world, small hands wrapped around his belly. A terrible shadow crossed his pain-wracked form._

_ 'Stop wailing, Billy, you're pathetic!'_

_ Billy felt a foot crunch against his ribs, gasped against the agony._

_ 'Daddy, please, stop!'_

_ 'Shut up, Billy! You're weak. Take it like a man, not a whiny little bitch. I'm making you strong, boy.' His father grunted, kneeling in the grass. 'You gotta be strong.' Billy could smell the alcohol oozing from his father's pores like sweat._

_**Strong**__, thought little Billy, __**I need to be strong**__._

_ The memory skipped._

_ A small rodent, wide black eyes glistening with trust, lay in Billy's lap. The purple sunset sky was wide and clouded overhead, soft yellow grasses whispered and sighed in the cool breeze. Billy held a silver knife in his chubby hand, turning it to catch the light. Beautiful._

_ The pet squeaked and Billy felt Love for the innocent creature. It did not deserve to stay in this place of pain. He stroked its head gently, so gently, crooning softly to it. Billy slit its throat swiftly, watched the blood darken the ground, stain his clothes, and gild the knife. He was proud—he had helped the little thing escape. It was Free._

_ Billy wanted to be free too. He looked behind him to the small house, now black and hulking in the fading light. He put the bloody knife to his neck—the cool bite felt delicious—but hesitated. What if he could Help others? He was strong—his father had made him strong, worthy._

_ Billy liked that word. Worthy._

_ He could Help others, yes he could. Help them to be Worthy, then to Free them._

_ Billy stood, the pitiful carcass tumbling from his lap to the earth, already forgotten._

_ He had his Duty._

Billy snapped awake, felt the tears-that-came-with-Seeing. He turned into the seat and brought the knife from its hidden place. He slid his fingers down the flat of the blade, slowly at first, then with desperation. He had to find her. Make her understand that he was Worthy.

He did not sleep for the remainder of the two-day flight.


	9. Aftermath

"Ugh." Shepard clutched her aching head. What-? It all came flashing back. Kelly, the wine, the seemingly innocent line of questions.

_Bitch!_ Shepard growled and grabbed her twisted sheets like they were a certain yeoman's throat. _She drugged me just to get her scuttlebutt!_

A sharp pain behind her eyes reminded her that being angry was probably not the smartest thing to do right now. She got up, dressed slowly, shaking her head at her own stupidity. She should have just left it at 'cute'. It was perfectly natural to…appreciate a friend's appearance, perfectly natural to think of their personal qualities and attributes, but not when you're drunk. Not when you're with the ship gossip and certainly not when said friend is…was…a subordinate officer.

_Damn._

She trudged into her little bathroom, rubbing her eyes blearily. So _this_ was a hangover.

…

"Good morning, Commander!" Kelly's smile was mischievous. Shepard was pissed again, the hangover fading to a tolerable level.

"Don't give me that, Chambers," she snarled, stepping in close, "You drugged me! For gossip!"

Kelly held up her hands defensively, eyes going innocently wide, "I didn't force you to drink, Commander. And I just wanted to get to know you."

Shepard slapped a hand to her forehead in frustration, "That's not how normal people build relationships, Kelly. If you ever—"

"Oh, don't worry, Commander," Kelly grinned, "I won't tell. Honestly."

Shepard decided to leave before she said or did anything she couldn't take back. She felt too unstable. She stormed off to the cockpit.

"You'll have to be sneakier than that if ya wanna steal my hat, Commander."

Joker didn't turn his chair, but she could hear the smirk in his voice.

She walked around to the side, curious. His mussy brown hair stuck up in one place and was matted down in another. His grin was wide and proud.

The flash of his eyes made her stomach flipflop, which only made her angry again. 'Cute'. Stupid Kelly.

"Where's the hat?"

"Nope. It's a secret."

"You're sitting on it, aren't you?"

He shifted smugly, "Maybe. Forget the hat. What's up?"

"Kelly is…" Shepard searched for an appropriate phrase, failed, and threw up her hands dramatically.

He arched an eyebrow. "Okay, I'm missing something."

Shepard sighed and sat down on one of the consoles. "She drugged me."

"Hey, watch where you park your ass!...Wait, 'drugged' you?" He grinned, shaking his head, "Spiked your Kool-Aid, did she?"

"Something like that," Shepard grumbled, thin fingers going to her temples.

"Huh. Didja wake up with your pants on backwards? Were you wearing pants?" His smile was wide, green eyes glinting, "Don't answer, I'm getting mental pictures."

She punched his shoulder lightly, "Hah stinking ha. No, she interrogated me until I conked out and I woke up in the clothes I fell asleep in."

"Well, I'm glad she didn't ninja-rape you."

"That's the sweetest thing you've ever said, Joker, thank you." Her ears burned.

"Anytime, Commander. What'd she wanna know, anyway?" He swiveled his chair to face her fully. She shook her head. Rather than dampening his curiosity, her actions seemed to pique it. Joker leaned forward eagerly.

"Oh, c'mon, Commander, you know you like me better. Spill."

"No!" She stood up, laughing, and started to go.

"Hey, I gotta know now," he sat up slightly and pulled his cap out from under him, "I'll let you wear my hat. Just for the day, mind."

She looked at the proffered cap, then pointedly at his ass. "No thanks, Joker. Maybe after you wash it."

"Psh, I never wash this baby," he pulled it on definitively, "Bad luck to."

"Mm, suddenly our little game is less appealing."

"Right, Commander, because there's absolutely nothing appealing about dirty sweaty stuff." He grinned wolfishly.

Shepard blushed, her mind going exactly where he wanted it to.

He wiggled the hat. "You know you want it."

"I'll pass. Besides, I want to earn it." She walked around the back of his chair and leaned over his shoulder to speak in his ear, "I'll get it eventually, Lieutenant." Her heart beat so hard she was sure he could hear it. He leaned his head back, eyes closed, a slight shiver twitched his shoulders.

"Mm, looking forward to it, Commander, but I still wanna know what Kelly—"

Shepard slumped back, hiding her disappointment with a tsk, "Sorry, flyboy, all girl-talk, you wouldn't be interested."

He grunted, crossing his legs with difficulty, "You're no fun. You know, if it's Kelly, it'll probably be spread all over the ship in a few days anyway. Like with that varren thing. Not to suggest that our local xenophile had anything to do with that…"

"See ya, Joker," Shepard pushed the brim of his hat down with two lazy fingers, "And remember: hats go on your head, not under your ass."

"Hey, wait!" He grinned after her, "Have you given any thought to my other question?"

She frowned slightly, "About…?"

"Post 'saving-the-galaxy' plans."

She smiled. "Yes." Then she left him, his good-natured complaints falling behind.


	10. Message Away

Billy stood in front of the terminal. The orange glow bathed his pale, thin face, steady and soft.

What should he write? How could he tell her of the Beautiful Things they were to share?

He'd been composing a message in his head with sophisticated phrasing and elegant words, but when he'd typed it, it had seemed Prideful, Presumptuous, False. He wanted to be honest with his Phoenix, he wanted her to Feel his Truth.

So he wrote. It wasn't clean, it wasn't Worthy, but the simplicity felt intimate. He flushed, thinking of intimacy, of coupling, then shook his head viciously. Unworthy thoughts—base, vile, crude! Pure beings such as Shepard and himself had no time for fleshy animal distractions.

The muffled voices from outside the apartment had stopped outside of the door. No time. He sent the message and shut down the terminal. Billy slipped into the bedroom, found a small bathroom, hid behind a shower curtain, and waited. His heart pounded with anticipation. Had she received his message yet? Was she reading it now? He frowned, anxiety rising. What if she-?

The bathroom door hissed open and the Doubts flew away. His fingers tensed on the knife and he reminded himself to avoid damaging the face or the smooth skin of the arms.

Those were perfect for demonstrating his Appreciation.


	11. Familiar Faces

Shepard moaned softly, one hand pressed to her lower abdomen. "Doc, I forgot how much this _sucked._"

The good doctor was rummaging through the low row of cabinets. "Did you always get severe cramps when on your menstrual cycle?"

"Ever since they started, yeah." Shepard had been sitting on one of the medbay cots, but eased gingerly down when Chakwas made a soft noise of discovery. "I don't remember it being this bad, though."

Chakwas emerged from the recesses of a cabinet, gray hair mussed and cheeks slightly flushed, with a small white pill-bottle in her hand. She tsked at the younger woman. "Honestly, Shepard, I've seen you shrug away bullet wounds. You're being quite infantile about this."

"You earn battle-wounds!" Shepard protested, "There's nothing dangerous or remotely romantic about_ this_."

Chakwas raised a critical eyebrow. "I was unaware that potentially mortal injury was considered attractive." She opened the bottle and shook two capsles out onto a palm, then offered them to Shepard.

"Ah, I didn't mean it like that." Shepard took the pills. "Thanks." She swallowed them dry.

Chakwas just shook her head and returned the bottle to its hiding place.

"How've you been sleeping, Commander?"

"Fine," she lied. Ever since her…revival…her sleep patterns had been sporadic. In the past three days, despite the exhaustive intensity of her various planet-side forays, she hadn't slept at all.

"Don't give me that, Shepard, I'm a physician. Is it a dream or just insomnia?"

Shepard sighed and leaned back against a cot, "Mostly dreams. Sometimes insomnia."

"What do you dream about?" Chakwas took a seat in her comfy chair, expression concerned.

"Sometimes Mindoir. Akuze. Virmire. Mostly…mostly it's my death." Shepard looked down at her hands, useless in her lap. "On the nights I can't sleep, I worry about some of the things I've done, what I'm going to do. Any decision I make could be the one that dooms us all."

Chakwas snorted, "That sounds a mite self-absorbed. To be honest, Commander, you're doing your best and your best is better than most peoples'."

Myla smiled slightly, "Thanks, doc."

"About the dreams—they're all memories?"

"The bad ones, yes, for the most part."

The older woman folded her arms uncertainly, "Would it…help to talk about them?"

"With who? Kelly? No, she's not high on my 'trust list' right now."

Chakwas's mouth quirked, "Then maybe you should talk to someone you _do_ trust."

"Oh!" It occurred to Shepard that Chakwas may have meant herself, "I'm sorry—"

The doctor waved her apology away, "No, no, Commander, not me. I'm just an old country doctor—you need someone you can really _talk_ to. Just think about it."

"Okay, Bones," Myla stood, the dull insistent pain in the pit of her stomach already fading, "Thanks for the meds. And the advice."

"Anytime, Commander."

….

"Yeoman Chambers, if you say I have unread messages at my private terminal, I shall scream."

Kelly blinked innocently, "Commander, the Illusive Man would like to speak with you in the briefing room."

"Oh," Shepard said, surprised, "O—okay, thanks Kelly." She turned to go.

"Also, you have unread messages at your private terminal."

"Dammit!"

…..

Horizon was a dry hell—the small black seeker swarms whining across the bright blue sky. The hot, cracked ground was ravaged by telltale signs of battle, a few brownish stalks of dead grass were testament to the drought that had plagued the settlement this season.

Everywhere, the thick stench of fear, the metallic smell of blood, the acrid scent of insects, but no bodies. At least, no dead colonists. Here and there, the unnatural spiny forms of Collector drones lay ominous and pathetic on parched earth. But more terrible than the bodies, or the conspicuous lack thereof, were the living left behind.

Shepard shivered, peering at a woman frozen in mid-step, an expression of purest horror preserved on her pale face. She was encased in some alien material—dark and glossy like obsidian, but practically transparent, with dark wraiths of smoke or steam curling sinisterly away. Her field survival instructor's words came floating back to her. _Don't touch what you can't identify, soldier._

She swallowed hard, trying to fight the swelling wave of despair and guilt. She'd been too late.

A sharp report snapped in the hot breeze and Myla looked back at her squad. Jack kicked lazily at the top half of a husk. Iridescent blue-black blood—oil?—stained the ground beneath it.

"Little shit was still movin'." She waved her gun, grinning, "Not anymore."

Shepard nodded once. Zaeed fidgeted with some of his armor plates—he'd taken some fire from that…thing's particle beam, and his mouth was a grim slash of pride and pain. She reached for a pack of medigel from her belt.

"Here, let—"

"What the hell did you people do? You let them get away?" It was that insufferable colonist. Delan. Dalan. Dailan. The mechanic.

"We were too late," she said simply, staring up at the sky to where she'd just watched the giant Collector ship shudder and leave.

The man threw up his hands, "So that's it? You're late. All these colonists are gone, probably dead, and you're too late? Fat lot of help you were—we were just fine before your precious Alliance got here."

Shepard's marine pride swelled in indignation. She stepped forward and pointed at him angrily, "The Alliance came here to help you! The Collectors took soldiers as well as colonists—this isn't about military or civilian, this is about human lives! People were taken. And you locked yourself safely away in a bunker. Did you even think of bringing others?"

The colonist grimaced in rage, his eyes narrowing hatefully, "Don't you dare, you bitch! You weren't here, you don't know—who the hell do you think you are?"

"Commander Shepard." The familiar voice hit her like a concussive round.

Kaiden Alenko strode deliberately from behind the colonist, his chocolate brown eyes fixed on Shepard's pale green ones. She smiled reflexively at her friend, but he did not return the gesture, expression cold and remote.

"Captain of the Normandy. The first human Spectre. The woman who defeated Saren and his geth. Savior of the Citadel." The accolades dripped from his lips, hung heavy with a bitterness that didn't belong in Alenko's warm tones. He broke his stare to glance sidelong at the annoying man, "You're talking to a legend…and a ghost."

The mechanic clenched his fists, shaking his head in disgust. "Figures. We lose a lot of good people, and _you_ get left behind." He retreated behind a row of crates, probably in search of other colonists.

Kaiden turned to her fully, something hard in his eyes. Suddenly he stepped forward, hugging her tightly. At her side, Shepard heard Jack give a soft taunting whistle. "I missed you," he whispered in her ear.

Shepard bit her lip, thinking of green eyes watching the feed from her visor cam.

Finally, Kaiden pulled away, expression melting a little, "I thought you were dead, Commander, we all did."

_I was dead,_ she wanted to say, but it came out wrong. "It's been two years, Kaiden. People change, go their own ways. I spent two years on a lab table."

"Commander," his voice was hurt, angry, "I would have followed you anywhere. I loved you."

_I know._ She closed her eyes, remembering the awkward encounter on the SR1. Her relief when Joker had interrupted Kaiden's advances, her guilty horror when he confronted her later. She'd liked Alenko—he'd been a good soldier and a solid friend, but he was too…bland for anything more.

"Alenko…" He wasn't listening to her. She heard Zaeed sigh.

"And now you're working for Cerberus?" He shook his head, righteous disappointment etched on his handsome face, "Don't you know what they do?" It felt like he'd slapped her.

"We're not working for Cerberus," snarled Jack in the background.

"I know better than anyone you've met, Alenko," Shepard said coolly, her eyes hard, "They slaughtered my unit on Akuze for their sick experiments. They killed Kahoku and his men. They've ruined and perverted innocent lives across the galaxy. I don't like them, I don't trust them, but right now I need their money and resources to take down the Collectors."

Jack's appreciative grunt didn't even register with Myla—she glanced at the man in front of her, resenting his confidence, his apparent refusal to give her a chance to defend herself. They were the same rank now, she realized, he owed her no authoritative respect. His disapproving sneer made it clear she wouldn't get any. _Not looking to screw the commanding officer anymore, are you?_ She thought cruelly, then hated herself immediately.

"You've turned your back on everything we stood for." Alenko looked down on her stonily, "You've changed. But I still know where my allegiance lies."

He turned to go, pausing to throw a regretful look over his shoulder, "Be careful."

He was gone.

"Stupid pretty-boy," growled Zaeed softly, giving her a rough slap on a shoulder pad, "Forget him, Shepard. He'll come off his pedestal and see you were right."

"Asshole," agreed Jack.

Shepard wanted to scream or cry or at least sit down, but she kept her back straight and her expression blank. She slapped the com button on her visor.

"Joker, send the shuttle down."

"You got it, Commander." He was embarrassed, pitying. He'd heard the whole thing.

"I've had enough of this place," she spat in a broken whisper, staring up at a sky that had no right to be blue and cheerful.

…..

Jack and Zaeed didn't try to talk to her on the shuttle-ride up. Fine by her. She didn't trust herself to talk. _At least we know Mordin's anti-seeker stuff works._

Her squad lounged quietly on either side of her, checking their weapons or stretching sore limbs. They worked so well together and she was surprised to find that she was grateful for their respect and gruff mannerisms. They were killers out of necessity and profession—they had no higher code or regulation to adhere to. They were strong and they had enough courtesy to recognize some pains were private.

Oh, Alenko. He had always been so open, so trusting. Shepard stared down at her empty hands. He hadn't even listened to her.

A sudden surge of anger. _I loved you. _His words were weapons he used without comprehension. It hadn't been fair to say that. She couldn't help that she hadn't felt the same, that she was already thinking about…about someone else. She cupped her face in her hands, seeking solace in the darkness, but her treacherous mind drudged up memories she'd hoped to avoid.

_His eyes were bright, intense. He moved close, too close, broad chest, handsome face, inches away. Adrenaline pulsed through her, making every detail sharper, heart pumping faster. Part of her wanted to give in, to give in to the moment—hell, he wanted it, they could die tomorrow, all that desperate hormone-fueled drivel._

_ He wouldn't go, he was waiting for her. Joker wouldn't save her this time._

_ Alenko leaned in, her silence giving him confidence or just feeding his impatience for a verdict._

_ She stopped him. It would be wrong. Disappointment flickered across his face, but she'd made up her mind. It had to be real._

_ He'd left. She'd stayed in her room, thinking. Thinking about a life she'd never have, and green eyes darker than her own._

The shuttle docked with a gentle bump that blew away her memories.

She took a shuddering breath and rubbed at her eyes. She had to give Mordin the news and then the Illusive Man owed her some damn answers.


	12. Intelligent Conversation

By the time she reached the bridge, her anger had burned out.

"Hey," she sighed wearily, singing onto the cool floor beside his chair.

"Hey Commander, it's, uh, funny the people you can run into out here, huh? Still, it was nice to see Kaiden—Staff Lieutenant Alenko, wasn't it?—again, right?"

Joker's voice was carefully positive but obviously, to Myla's ears, fake. She laughed humorlessly, running her fingers roughly through her hair, "I don't think 'nice' or 'funny' come close to it."

He let out a long breath. "I heard."

"I know."

"He dumped a lot of shit on you."

"I know. I just…I couldn't find the right words, you know?"

"Yeah," he glanced at her quickly, something sad in his eyes, "I know."

They were quiet, the hum of the duragel displays and the slight movements as he tapped this and adjusted that were the only sounds in the cockpit.

"I never thanked you, did I?" Shepard asked suddenly.

He looked down at her, surprised. "For what, exactly?"

"For…interrupting Kaiden." She blushed. Why _should_ he remember? And even if he did, he'd said it wasn't intentional—

"Oh, that." He grinned guiltily, "No, but I didn't think you wanted to thank me. Kaiden was pissed."

"Well, a very belated 'thanks' unto you, Lieutenant." She closed her eyes and lay back, not caring, for the moment, what anyone thought of her.

She could imagine him arching his eyebrow in his customary manner, "You're welcome. So…I guess scuttlebutt was wrong, then?"

"It is nine times out of ten." She couldn't be sure, but his responding grunt sounded pleased.

Something occurred to her. She sat up and opened her eyes. "Joker, why is EDI so quiet whenever I'm up here?"

"Ah," he scratched the back of his head, "I may be muting it whenever you come to visit."

"Why?"

He looked down at her and smiled without a trace of sarcasm or mockery. "This is our time, Commander. I don't want to feel like there's always someone else butting in."

She laughed, "I like being alone with you too, Joker." It wasn't until the words had left her mouth that she'd thought of their alternate connotation.

He grinned wolfishly, "Oh, so you wanna do innuendos now? I'd say it's been a pleasure serving under you, but I haven't had that particular pleasure yet."

"No—that was completely by accident!" She laughed again, "I'm sure you're just swelling with pride in your own little comment, though." If he caught that—

"Ooh, naughty, Commander, you're below the belt there."

"I certainly hope so." She tried her own predatory grin and he snickered.

"Just shocking. To think that you are a role model to the galaxy and all the innocent children."

"So you surrender?"

"Nah, I think you'll have to punish me." He smirked suggestively and she flushed. Had Kelly told him about the leather thing?

"Oh, I don't think it'll come to that. You could always bribe me—I'll take whatever you can give me." Oh gods, she _had_ just said that.

"Wow." He adjusted his cap and pulled at the neck of his shirt, "That was pretty good, if a bit long." Shepard stifled an instinctive response. She didn't know how long she could keep this up without revealing herself as a total idiot.

She smiled, sticking up a hand, "Truce?"

He gripped it and shook solemnly. "Truce."

Shepard got up off the floor with a slight grown, the dull responsibilities of command flooding her being at the same time as residual aches and pains from the earlier firefight. He caught her arm before she left.

"Hey, Commander," he took off his cap and plunked it on her head, "Just for the rest of the day, okay?"

She grinned and knuckled his head, further mussing his dark brown hair, "Thanks flyboy."

"Good talk, Commander."


	13. Idle Minds

Why wasn't she here yet? Billy paced the dirty floor of the abandoned apartment he'd taken up residence in.

Maybe he needed to motivate her. He snuck out to find a public-access information terminal and spent the next six hours poring over his Phoenix's life. Friends, family—few. Hm. Not an easy quarry.

His heart sped up at the prospect of a challenge. He'd have to bring her to him.

Someplace empty would be good—she'd be suspicious anyway, may as well avoid any potentially interfering factors. Billy had accepted the fact that she did not want Release. Few who deserved it did. Why would she come to him? Billy knew that whatever you Released graced you with part of its strength, part of its experience and spirit, thereby making you more Worthy in turn, but he was unsure if she Appreciated this truth.

He scanned the text of a biographical report, eyes moving rapidly over glowing words. Maybe he could Take someone. Shepard seemed to advocate a delayed Release for the Pure and the Innocent. Curious. Perhaps she'd want to Find him for those he'd already Freed?

By all accounts, she was an accomplished warrior—beyond what he'd Witnessed at Purgatory. A marine, N7, Spectre…beautiful. He read the reports on Mindoir and Akuze with great interest. Forged through grief and pain.

A sniper specialist. He'd have to be careful when setting up—he wanted it to be close, intimate—preferably with no weapons at all.

Billy smiled. All right, the more time she gave him, the more time he had to prepare for her Coming. It would be perfect.

…

**A/N This will be the last of Billy for a while, hope it creeped you out sufficiently! **


	14. Preparation

After Horizon, Shepard threw herself into recruitment, although part of her was dismayed by the kind of people they were picking up. Increasingly it seemed to her that the Illusive Man had simply picked the most powerful or talented individuals he could find without regard to their personal qualities or giving forethought to how they'd fit together as a team. Still, she did her best to talk with them all, winning them over, convincing them to work as a unit. At times, this was more challenging than her years spent training as an N7.

Each had their own personal problems, stories, and opinions, and Shepard felt as if she were being torn in eleven different directions. There had been a brief break in requests and complaints when she'd visited to the Citadel to get Gardner's ingredients (after meeting Kasumi, preventing Garrus from shooting Sidonis, and narrowly keeping Kolyat from following in his father's footsteps), but soon she was swamped again. Technically, personal complaints, questions, and comments were the second-in-command's prerogative and responsibility, but Shepard wanted to know her crew, she wanted her crew to know and trust her personally, and Miranda—despite her flawless appearance—was not the kind of person you came to with problems. Miranda had enough of her own, anyway.

Shepard leaned against her private terminal, thinking about the day's mission. She'd had no conception of Lawson's complex family issues. Her very existence—genetically engineered to a man's ideal of a woman—was due to the money of a controlling father. If one could buy perfection, what was it truly worth? Would her personal actions and decisions live up to her genetic potential? Shepard had seen the other woman's pride and insecurity.

Perhaps the only actions she hadn't been engineered for were her initial rebellion from her father and her subsequent theft of her sister. Theft or liberation? Her motives in that venture were murky. Vengeance, or a genuine desire to give another version of herself a free "normal" life? Both? Whatever the subconscious root, it had been worth enduring the other woman's superficial arrogance to see her smile and open up to her sister.

Shepard sighed, stretching her back. Most of Cerberus crew—including her administrative assistant—were in bed; she was alone at her terminal. She keyed it on, trying to remember the last time she'd checked it. Gods, not since Horizon at _least_.

_**Oh. Shit.**_ She took one look at the inbox and vowed to check her mail as soon as the shuttle docked after every mission. Myla gritted her teeth and started reading.

To her relief, most of it was spam or tentative greetings from old friends she had since seen. She could delete those. A plethora of 'thank-you' messages, useless old mission reports…she could read those later.

A strange entry caught her eye. No title, no origin. She frowned and opened it.

_**Title: (Untitled)**_

_**From: (Error, Invalid Sender Name)**_

_Hey Shepherd__,__ heard I have you to thank you for getting out of Purgatory (sent a ship to round me up, but they didn't weapons-check good enough)! I'm gonna carve your name instead of mine into my next victim as thanks, got anyone you need dead (haha)? You did take a shot at me though on my way out so I have to kill you, you know how it goes. Dad taught me that you let anybody hurt you, they get ideas so you make sure to send a message, not like I'm sending now, though! See you around, the people who live here are coming back and it's showtime! Look around for your name, I'll make sure you find it before I find you! Billy… _

As she read, she felt her heart sink. Just another mess she had created. This Billy was clearly insane and clearly obsessed. She closed her eyes, images of still, cold flesh, her name emblazoned in blood—stop. Her fists clenched and she felt a rising fury replace despair. This couldn't happen now, not now, not fucking—

Her omnitool beeped softly. Kasumi.

Shepard took a deep breath. There were serial killers all over the galaxy, she reminded herself, there were twisted sadists in every alleyway—this Billy could wait.

Myla logged off her terminal and walked to the elevator, forcing her swell of emotion down. She had to be strong—her people needed her.

….

Kasumi looked up at Shepard as she entered the room, a smile on her painted lips and twin spots of eager light gleaming softly beneath her dark hood.

"Hey, Shep, are you ready for a party?"

Myla tried to remember the details of Goto's personal vendetta, "Donovan Hock, right?"

The thief inclined her head affirmatively, "I'll give you a quick rundown when we're arriving—it's on Bekenstein in the Boltzman system. Relatively close to the Citadel so…"

Shepard nodded, "I'll give Joker the coordinates."

"Thanks, Shep," the Japanese woman stood fluidly, a grin spreading on her lips. "That's not all I wanted to talk to you about, though." She moved to her bunk and knelt, a slender arm straining into the darkness beneath it.

"Mm?" Shepard raised an eyebrow. She usually liked Kasumi's playful nature, but in light of recent events, she just wanted to go back to her cabin and sleep.

Kasumi pulled a thin white box from under her bed and opened it, revealing a neatly folded black…something. She set the box down and went back beneath her bunk. Shepard walked over to her teammate, poking the black thing experimentally. Leather.

She had a bad feeling about this. "Is this-?"

Kasumi emerged from the darkness, holding aloft a pair of black heels, her smirk practically sadistic. "Formal wear, Shep. Surely you didn't think you'd be going in that clunky armor of yours?"

"I hadn't thought that far…and don't call me Shirley." Myla numbly lifted the dress from its box. _**Oh hell.**_ "I can't wear this."

"Sure you can. Just think of it as going undercover." The thief sat on her bed, grinning encouragingly, "It should fit—I took your measurements from old Alliance requisition forms and guessed the rest from holos. Try it on!"

Myla rolled her eyes but felt herself start to cave. She _did_ like leather, and there was no one watching… "I don't usually wear dresses…"

Kasumi cocked her head, "Well, if you wanted us to get thrown out and shot at, you could always wear your Alliance dress blues."

"Fine." Shepard stripped off her casuals and struggled to fit in the dress. "How the _hell_—"

"There's a zipper, Shep!" Kasumi rushed to her side, laughing, and helped the frustrated woman. "Over your head—_there_ we go."

Kasumi zipped her up, and Shepard felt the dress close up around her like a cool shell. It fit perfectly. She looked down and blushed at the low neckline, but a small voice in the back of her mind purred approvingly at the flattering cut of the outfit.

"You clean up good, Commander," winked the thief, holding up one of the shoes, "Now try these."

Memories of twisted ankles and breath-catching stumbles bubbled up. Part of Academy training dealt with formal dress, etiquette, etc. Myla had nearly failed those courses. She took a defensive step back and the lights in Kasumi's eyes flared menacingly.

"If you'd rather wear combat boots, that's fine, I'm sure you won't miss your hamster. Or your model ship collection. Or your secret chocolate stash."

"Dirty blackmailer." Myla grudgingly accepted the shoes, bending over to put them on. Why were these so damn unmanageable? One.

"Shep. Your dress? Your pilot might appreciate the view, but little things like that will give you away as a…woman who does not attend functions such as Hock's party."

Shepard flushed and straightened, clapping a hand to her neckline.

She let the reference to Joker go, wobbling over to Kasumi's usual perch and sitting heavily. Ah, instantly more comfortable. She managed to put on the other shoe and grinned up to the thief in triumph, but the other woman was shaking her head, hands pushed into the dark recesses of her hood in despair.

"Cross your legs, Shepard! I'm starting to wish I'd picked Grunt."

"Why don't you just take Miranda?" Shepard's cheeks were flaming and she started pulling off the contemptible heels.

"Because, Shepard, you're the only one I trust to get the job done." Kasumi smiled easily, but Myla had talked with her enough to know when the expression hid bitter sadness. "Keiji meant everything to me and…now he's gone. That graybox is all I have left of him." The thief had seemed to dwindle as she talked, but now she straightened and snapped her luminescent gaze to Shepard, giving her a determined grin. "Put those shoes back on and get up, Shep, let's see how you walk."

With a sigh of regret for her private cabin and the comfortable, if too-large bed within, Shepard obligingly slid her feet into the instruments of torture known as 'high heels', stood, and took a tottering step. It would be a long night.


	15. Infiltration

"Wow, Commander, you look—"

"Eyes to your station, Chambers!" Myla snapped, her cheeks burning. It was impossible to storm properly in this damn dress. Ugh, she hadn't even slept.

"Yes ma'am!" The yeoman was grinning. She resumed her work, typing feverishly at her terminal. _**What the hell does she even do on there?**_ Shepard wondered briefly, then decided she didn't care.

She activated her Omnitool and sent an irate message to Connors in the cargo bay, asking for an update on the status of the statue. His reply was much more polite, assuring her that the weapons and armor had been secured within the statue's secret compartment in the base, and that the statue itself was ready for transport. Momentarily mollified, she sent a quick 'thank you'. Connors was a nice guy—not at all the Cerberus type.

Come to think of it, none of her Cerberus crewmembers were the 'Cerberus type'.

Huh.

A flash of gold caught her eye and she scowled, lapsing back into her foul mood. That stupid statue! Why Saren, of all possible things? She'd spent months hunting the bastard, lost Jenkins on Eden Prime, then Ashley on Virmire, only to find in the end that the turian Spectre she chased was nothing but a sad, twisted puppet. A cruel mockery of the proud man he used to be.

Thinking about Saren made her depressed. She began to feel weary, ancient, and shook her head vigorously, marching up to the bridge. _**So tired**_…her ankle wobbled dangerously, and prickly fear choked her throat automatically. She hated these damn things! She stamped into the cockpit.

"Hey, Commander, ETA's about ten minutes so, last-time potty break, 'cause…" He swiveled his chair to face her and raised his eyebrows in surprise, "Hellooooo, Nurse! Damn, Shepard, give a guy a little warning? I don't have the Normandy's cameras set to record."

"Gee, thanks, Joker—really heartwarming," she growled, a headache pulsing behind her eyes, "I'm taking this stupid thing off first chance I get."

"Really? Can I help? Y'know, this might _be_ that first chance." He grinned at her, green eyes glinting.

She pushed at the brim of his cap with one finger, "Lieutenant, I am _so_ not in the mood for this right now. I only came up to tell you that, for the majority of the mission, I won't be able to talk to you via our comms. I can hear you if you have an emergency, but—"

"Gotchya—I'll be SOL for a response." His gaze flicked up and down her figure appreciatively and she felt herself blush.

"What? Is it too…I told Goto I looked like a, a club dancer or something."

He shook his head, green eyes meeting hers seriously, "No, Commander, you look—"

She folded her arms protectively across her chest, "I know, I know, like a hooker." The movement made her wobble dangerously on her too-high heels.

"Well, I was going to say 'beautiful'," he looked at her, expression still uncharacteristically sober.

_**No, no, no—he hadn't just said that, he hadn't just**_—the pain in her head bloomed and she brought her hands to her temples. She wasn't beautiful, she knew she wasn't.

"Please don't say that, Joker. Please…"

"Why not?" He challenged, smirking, "It's true. You are."

"I'm not!" She threw her hands out and lost her balance completely, falling against him. Instinctively, she put her hands up, slamming his shoulders against the back of his chair. He grunted in surprise and pain, quick hands catching her just above the waist.

She looked up—her face was inches away from his. _**Close enough to kiss**_, a traitor part of her thought numbly, but she pushed it down. Beautiful. Her head throbbed.

"Wow, leather," he remarked softly, hands slipping down to her hips. He grinned playfully at her.

She shuddered at his touch, could not deny the warm charge it sent crackling up her spine, but swallowed the pleasure. She had a job to do—it didn't matter how much she wanted this. Actually, no, she didn't want this, not like this. Beautiful. No.

Shepard pulled away, straightening proudly. "I should go." She saw the confusion, the hurt in his eyes.

"Is this a chick thing? You want me to say something, right?"

"No, Joker, I…" Gods, her head hurt, "I can't do this right now."

He threw up his hands, "Do what? We weren't doing anything! I just complimented you and you flipped."

She activated her Omnitool, looking for an escape. "We're almost at the drop area, Joker, I have to leave."

He just shook his head and turned his chair away.

Beautiful. **The batarian snarled in her ears**-No. Shepard brushed her copper hair back behind her ears, letting out a low, long breath. Control.

"Shepard—I would suggest that you depart to the shuttle. Kasumi Goto is already aboard and we are currently point-oh-five—"

"Okay, EDI, I'm gone." He'd unmuted her. Shepard felt tears burning but she blinked them away.

Beautiful.

….

Shepard listened numbly to Kasumi's intructions as the shuttlecraft hummed towards Hock's mansion. She knew she could handle the mission—it seemed pretty straightforward.

Beautiful.

He couldn't have known, he was just trying to…to what? To be nice? That wasn't like him. He was always honest, often brutally so. So why would he do that to her?

Beautiful. She knew she wasn't. Her headache was beginning to subside.

They landed and she saw that damn statue again. The light of the setting sun glinted from its menacing brow, the abnormal headfringe. The Eclipse guard stopped them.

"Just a moment, ma'am. There seems to be an issue with the statue."

The compartment was leadlined—he shouldn't be able to 'see' the armor or weapons. The women waited calmly.

"Is there a problem here?" A tall man with a square jaw, unpleasantly thick lips, and bright eyes that shone cruelly, descended the clean steps. Hock. It had to be.

"No, Mr. Hock. Just doing a scan." The guard waved his omnitool at the golden statue, scrutinizing the readings suspiciously.

Hock faced Shepard. "I don't believe we've met. Donovan Hock." The South-African accent was heavy and rather disconcerting.

"I've heard a lot about you. Alison Gunn." She smiled confidently, putting just enough respect into her tone to set him at ease and keeping it casual enough to where he'd understand she was powerful herself. She stuck her hand out. He did not shake.

"And I've heard a lot about you. You've been very busy lately," he paused just long enough to convey his skepticism, "If the extranet is to be believed."

"Sir," the security guard stood down, "The scanners aren't picking anything up."

Hock turned away from the two women, gazing into the statue's gilded face. "Hm. I don't think our guests would come all the way here from Illium just to cause trouble. Do you?" The guard shrugged and Hock shook his head.

"You may pass through, Ms. Gunn, with my apologies." Hock looked down at Kasumi scornfully, "But I will ask your companion to remain outside. You understand, I hope."

Well, so much for easy infiltration. She smiled and shrugged casually. "Your house, your rules."

She nodded dismissively to the thief at her side. Goto could always slip in with her stealth cloak engaged. Hock smiled mirthlessly and swept an arm up to indicate the mansion.

"Enjoy yourself at the party, Ms. Gunn."

She was in.


	16. Security Measures

Shepard paused at the entry, heels sunk at least an inch deep in a rich blue carpet which probably cost more than her entire armory. Kasumi whispered in her comm—she'd have no trouble sneaking in. _**Got to find the vault door and see what we're up against**_.

Right.

Myla moved forward, passing clusters of petty criminals in formal dress, elegant flutes of champagne in their hands. She suppressed a sneer.

_"Very double-oh-seven, Commander, nice."_ She stumbled slightly against a wall. _**Damn him, she'd said—**_

_"I think it's extremely cool, probably your coolest minimission yet. What do you think? Oh, right, you can't say anything because it'd blow your cover, huh? I mean, imagine seeing some sexy criminal leader slash mastermind talking to herself like a crazy person—oh wait, that might be the standard operating procedure. Go ahead—give it a try!"_

She shook her head imperceptibly, vowing to hurt him when she got back to the Normandy. She kept her posture flawless as she continued to move through the rooms, her face a serene mask.

_"Anyway,"_ she heard the line crackle as he sighed, "_I figured I'd just annoy you for a while. I'm sorry if I was…out of line earlier, okay? You're my friend and my commander and I respect you and all, I just…hell."_

Shepard moved to one of the seemingly endless bookcases and picked a thin volume from a shelf, opening it to a random page and pretending to read.

"Joker, get off the comm channel this instant. I have a job to—"

_"Oh, there you are, good."_ His tone brightened considerably, _"How's it going? I usually have a camera feed soooo I'm a little bored right now."_

"Are you shitting me?" she hissed, "Lieutenant, if I—"

_"I thought you wanted it. Right? Doesn't every woman want to hear that she's—"_

"I am _not_ beautiful, Joker and I am _not_ talking to you right now."

She snapped the book shut and replaced it on the shelf, clenching her jaw angrily. **Cold dark earth against her calves, looking up at the yellow light shining through the cracks around the cellar door in terror.** No!

Shepard went down a staircase, gripping the railing fiercely. It had to be close.

"_Yes you are_." His voice was low, intent. She forced herself to stop thinking about him.

"That's it," Kasumi's triumph was a low whisper, tremulous. She materialized with a shimmer, checking the security measures. "Password protected voice lock. Kinetic barrier. DNA scanner—looks like an EX-700 series. Everything a vault needs to be impenetrable. Keiji could get through this in his sleep." She turned toward Shepard with a predatory grin. "And I'm better."

She flickered out of view, "We can cut the power for the barrier. I'll sync your omnitool to read the electromagnetic fields. Good hunting, Shep."

Bars glowed in the walls—pipes? Cords? She followed their winding paths. _**Her sister's eyes—wide and doe-dark. **_Beautiful_**. No, no, no.**_ A bookcase. She pulled a statue down, interrupting the electrical circuit.

One down, two to go.

"Let's get into their security office—we'll need the password for the voice-scanner. If it's been left anywhere, it'll be there."

_"How's it going? You having fun? Don't be dancing with any crime syndicate leaders—Grunt's the jealous type."_

Shepard found the little room; two guards. She downed one with an Incinerate, but the other already had his gun leveled at her. She didn't move as he smirked and started to pull the trigger. **The smell of smoke in her nostrils.**

Kasumi shimmered into view behind him, dealing a lightning-fast strike to his neck. The guard fell to the floor with a sick crack and Kasumi went to the desk.

"Cutting it close, Shep. You check over there."

Myla moved around the room, scanning duragel displays, OSDs, anything. She picked up a datapad. "Peruggia. Is that it?" The name sounded vaguely familiar.

"Huh. That's the thief who stole the Mona Lisa. It's got to be. Hold on a sec, I want to try something." Kasumi went to the back, her fingers flicking across holographic displays, typing commands on a virtual keyboard.

"I've tapped into their communications network," she turned with a smile, "It could come in handy."

Joker was humming tunelessly. Shepard rolled her eyes, decided to ignore him.

"I saw a guard outside Hock's personal rooms—could we find a way to get past him?"

The glows within Kasumi's hood flared, "Sure. Monitoring their channels. Go. Mingle. We need a voice-sample from Hock, so…whenever you're ready."

Myla nodded, leaving the thief to clean up.

The main chamber was dominated by a large metal fountain, silhouetted against a perfect sky. A sweet breeze flowed in, cooled her forehead. She went to the balcony, gazing out at a gorgeous landscape. She rubbed her eyes, sighing. He'd called her 'beautiful', what of it? It wasn't like he'd really meant it. Her elbow grazed a datapad and she reflexively caught it before it slipped off the railing.

Shepard scanned it, a smile growing as she read on. She looked down, whispered quietly: "Kasumi, I think I've found our ticket into Hock's rooms."

_"You're going into this guy's room? Shit, Shepard, you don't even know him!"_

"Excellent. What do you need me to do?"

Myla explained her plan as she moved to the target, trying to walk the way Kasumi had showed her the night before—switching her hips lazily with each stride. When she stopped in front of the door guard, her smile was coy. He looked at her skeptically.

"Can I help you?"

"I was told to wait inside," Shepard purred, sauntering closer.

"On whose authority?"

_"Damn, Commander, I wish I had a camera feed_," she could hear his grin but she'd decided to ignore him long ago.

"Donovan Hock." She ducked her head, imitating the shy, sycophantic pride of a groupie selected by her god. The guard did not move.

"I'm sorry, but authorization can only be given by my chief—"

"Oh, please!" She widened her eyes, like she was desparate for her chance with the disgusting weapons dealer, "Couldn't you call them or something?"

He sighed reluctantly and gingerly accessed his comm, "Um, sorry to bother you Chief Roe, but there's a woman here—"

"Yes, yes, I've approved her already, Samuels! Now let her in and STOP BOTHERING ME!"

Shepard stifled her laughter at the poor guard's meek nod, useless over radio. Kasumi was brilliant. Her headache had faded away completely.


	17. Discovered

The room was palatial to Shepard's modest marine sensibilities and she couldn't see a practical reason for the bed to be the centerpiece of _any_ area. _**Bad taste and unsafe**_, she thought. Kasumi twinkled into view beside her.

"Alright—a nice DNA sample. A hair or some skin flakes should do."

"You go right, I'll take the left side." Myla activated her omnitool and scanned the first thing she came across—a potted plant.

"It's clean," she said uncertainly, somehow feeling the need to alert Kasumi.

Her voice was thick with incredulity, "It's a plant!"

_"Poor Shepard. Hey, check his bed! I bet there's lots of—"_

"Nothing on the sheets. His housekeepers are good." Kasumi hovered over the alarm clock, but decided against scanning it.

_"Aw…"_

"Nice try, Columbo," smirked Myla, scanning a couch. "Aha!"

Kasumi whirled at the exclamation, an expectant smile on her painted lips. "Did you-?"

"No," Shepard held up her prize, grinning, "A credit chit!"

"Honestly, Shep," Kasumi shook her head and continued scanning.

There was a small circular table with an ashtray, papers, and wineglasses. Shepard wrinkled her nose at the ashtray as she scanned it. Nothing. A minimal saliva sample from a wineglass—partial. Usable, but not great. She doubted the papers would yield anything useful, but gave it a run anyway, reading the cramped text as her omnitool clicked.

"Looks like Hock has been trying to crack Keiji's graybox," mused Kasumi, standing over Myla's shoulder. Myla nodded, moving to a display case against the far wall, stopping to plunder a wall safe. She felt no moral compunction about stealing from a thief and a murderer.

The display case was dusty—the antique weapons within gleamed darkly. Shepard admired the tempered ripples of the steel blades. The weapons of old were as much art as practical objects. There was little artistry in a pistol, though reliable, and little skill was necessary for its use. She waved her omnitool, "These don't look like they've been touched in a while—we could get skin cells from the dust."

"It's probably contaminated, though. Let's get more samples." Kasumi was at the workdesk, slim fingers hovering just above the surface of a datapad. "This should work. See if you can find any more though, no harm in being thorough."

Myla went to the bed again, "Did you do the pillows?"

"Oh, no, I was mainly thinking…" Kasumi grinned at the other woman.

Shepard tsked and shook her head, "Shameful. Get your head out of the gutter, Goto." She scanned the pillow nearest her, "Got it. Let's go."

Kasumi nodded, vanishing from sight. "Remember—we still need the voice sample. Just get him talking."

Shepard exited Hock's quarters, giving a wink to the Eclipse guard still standing at the door.

Hock wasn't hard to find. He stood in a small gaggle of admiring criminals who began to disperse as Shepard drew near. Disconcerting. Was she suspected? Or did they recognize her as Alison Gunn, badass extraordinaire? She hid her unease, adopting the casual smile of a business colleague.

He turned to her, inclining his head slightly. "Ms. Gunn. I hope you're having a good time." His eyes were wary as they had been at the entrance but he stuck out his hand. "That scene at the door hasn't soured your evening, I trust?" The picture of a concerned host. If a paranoid and ruthless one on a power trip. A small swell of cynical bitterness rose like bile in her throat, bringing back an echo of her bad mood. Control. She couldn't slip up now.

Myla shook her head slightly, widened her eyes in earnestness, "I understand the security, but who would dare try to break into your home?" Hopefully that would feed his ego.

_"Who's got two thumbs and lies like a volus shuttle salesman?"_ She would kill him.

Hock lowered his head in a patronizing and confidant manner. "Gunn, in our line of work, we attract a certain element. Few understand the pains we take to keep the barbarians at bay."

_**Poor suffering criminal. What a great burden you take on yourself**_, Shepard thought sarcastically, unable to keep her eyes from flicking to the gross displays of wealth about the colossal room.

"_What a load of shit."_ She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Fortunately, Hock had turned from her, arms raised to embrace the view of his affluence. Suddenly, she remembered a proud asari, red clublights dancing on her silvery tattoos, turning from her in a similar gesture_. __**I am Omega.**_

"People these days want comfort, entertainment, love. They don't see that the galaxy is fragile."

He turned back to her, still on his self-glorifying monologue, "They only have to worry about simple luxuries. Why? Because people like me—and you—are doing the terrible things that keep the galaxy spinning."

He was attracting the attention of nearby party-goers but Shepard didn't see. She was looking into the cruel face of a man who killed, stole, lied, cheated for money. _**People like me…and you.**_ He thought they were alike.

But maybe they were. Shepard was a killer too, although she tried to limit the bloodshed when possible, and only tried to kill those who she thought deserved it. **Evynne was screaming, screaming—**stop. And she was lying to him now, lied to many people for good reason. But…_**terrible things…keep the galaxy spinning.**_

She had done terrible things. She would do more.

"This party is for us. The cleaners. The support structure for the galaxy's gleeful delusions of peace."

_**The scavengers. The ones who do the dirty work. Who keep the everyday people in their cycles of self-fulfilling avarice.**_

He smiled, spreading his arms again. He had the full attention of the room. "May there always be a market for the things we do."

_**May there be an end to a culture that perpetuates this shit. May there be an end for the need of people like me.**_

The other criminals applauded him and he looked around, pretending not to have noticed they were watching.

Kasumi's voice was wry in her ear. "I said get him talking and you got him talking. We've got enough of a voice sample. Let him go."

Hock had given her enough of his time. "Enjoy the party, Ms. Gunn."

_**Not likely.**_

….

Kasumi breezed through the locks, her excitement almost palpable. She was close. She felt the same adrenaline-high as Shepard did whenever a good fight neared its climax. Myla stood awkwardly in the corner of the room, refusing to look at the statue's face.

"I'll check for security cams. Go ahead and get dressed."

Shepard sighed in relief. She was finally getting out of this damn dress. Au revoir to these stupid heels too. Eagerly, she waved her omnitool and the secret compartment in the statue's creamy base slid open. She seized her crimson armor gratefully; it felt like an old friend.

"Unzip me?"

"_Why Commander, I thought you'd never ask." _Shepard blushed, unsure whether to feel angry or…

Kasumi helped her out of the dress, "Honestly, Shep, I don't see why it's such a big deal—it's just a dress. You look good."

"_I told her just as much and she damn near bit my head off._" His tone was conversational, not accusatory. He hadn't really been offended then, good. A knot of tension in her chest that she hadn't noticed before softened and relaxed. But…**Her sister kicked, bare feet flashing in the dark**.

"I…" her mouth was dry and she swallowed, "I'm just not used to that kind of thing." She couldn't tell them, at least, not here. She couldn't help that to her, beauty was a useless and often dangerous trait, that if you were beautiful, you were never seen as more, often never were more…Oh, Ev…

Kasumi shrugged and picked out her weapons. She could sense when a subject was closed for conversation. _**Thank you.**_ Joker grunted, still unhappy with her response but, for the moment, content to let it go.

Shepard fastened her armor piece by piece, making sure it fit well, wouldn't slip, etc. She left her visor for last, flicking it on more out of habit than in expectation of a fight. It couldn't hurt.

"_Ugh, finally! Give us a wave, Kasumi."_ The thief wiggled her fingers good-naturedly, smirking at Shepard's irritated expression.

"Let's go," Shepard grumbled, sliding her sniper rifle into its carry-slot at her shoulderblade. The weight of the armor and weapons was comforting, familiar. She felt a surge of confidence. Almost there.

….

The vault itself was beautiful—large and cool, metal and stone, simple lines. Shepard looked at the array of valuable artifacts, recognizing some despite her limited artistic knowledge. A lot of statues, not necessary attractive in and of themselves, but their cultural significance and, in many cases, breath-taking antiquity, made them priceless. Kasumi's breath caught and her eyes lit up.

Myla glanced at her side-long, a wry grin at the open lust on the thief's face. "If you can't fit it on your person it stays here, okay?"

Goto nodded. "I know…it's just…wow! Maybe we could come back when we're done with the Collectors, Shep?"

"Ehhhh," Shepard didn't relish the idea of getting all dressed up again, "Maybe."

_"Euch! Is that a rachni queen?"_ Shepard looked down the rows of statues.

"Looks more like a warrior to me." Myla turned to regard what appeared to be a terra-cotta krogan.

"Ugh, I guess everything's valuable to someone." Kasumi ranged the room, stopping here and there to give Shepard a little historical background in the pieces. She stopped in front of one of the spiky turian sculptures. "That's…impressive. Not sure what it is, though."

_"…Shepard, please tell me you're thinking what I'm thinking. I don't want to be the only pervert on this channel."_ She bit down on a grin. Kasumi cocked her head disapprovingly.

"Really, you two, we are in the presence of some of the rarest artistic achievements of the galaxy. Try to be mature."

Something massive in the back of the room caught Myla's eye. "Is that-?"

"How did Hock get Lady Liberty's head? Damn you, Hock!"

"_I'm not going near that."_

Shepard walked to a low table. Guns! Something she knew about! "Hey, aren't these—?"

"That's a Kassa Locust. No, THE Kassa Locust! The gun that killed two presidents," Kasumi's voice held the same level of appreciation for the weapons as she did for the ancient artifacts. Shepard approved. "Gorgeous. It even comes with a perfect copy, too."

"One for me and one for you," Myla grinned and handed the other gun to Goto. There was a strange device on the table as well, Kasumi's gentle hiss of recognition could only mean one thing.

"Oh my god. There it is!" She activated her omnitool and started scanning.

Hock's voice rang out scornfully. "Don't bother, Ms. Goto. It's codelocked." A giant hologram of his head appeared at the far end of the room.

"_Huh. Ugly bastard."_

Shepard tensed her muscles, ready to grab a firearm if need be.

He did not look angry or triumphant, eyes coolly flicking from Kasumi to Shepard. "I had a feeling that was you at the door. I knew if it was really you, you'd get through anyway."

"_Sure does like the sound of his voice."_

Kasumi smiled, no sign of fear. "You know me. I don't like to disappoint."

The man's gaze was intent—focused, confident. "I need what's in your graybox, Kasumi. You know I'm willing to kill you for it."

"_Ew, he looks cross-eyed when he frowns."_

_ "_I'll admit your skills are impressive. You got into my vault like I'd left it open. But you're still going to die, screaming, just like your old friend."

Kasumi gave no sign that she'd heard him, manipulating her omnitool deliberately, but Shepard knew the jab at Okuda's memory hurt. She drew her newly acquired Locust and shot one round into an ugly vase nearby.

"Noooo!"

She sneered at the frustrated hologram, "Have I got your attention?" Hock glared, an expression of purest hate, but all Shepard could think of was Joker's comment. She smiled.

Kasumi laughed, "That shut him up."

"Kill them!" Hock had abandoned all pretense of 'suave evil mastermind'; his hologram disappeared in a distinctly frustrated manner.

The women took cover behind Hock's statues as the security doors opened and a slew of guards, headed by a bitchy-looking woman (Chief Roe?) rushed in.

"Here we go!" Shepard felt her world slow down, narrowing to the target hairs on her new toy. Kasumi slipped fluidly to a different cover, firing as she rolled. Blue-white muzzle flare, thread-thin traces of bullets.

The Kassa Locust piped when she fired, a rising crescendo of ammunition. A spray of dark burgundy blood—she did prefer the quick, clean headshot.

The Eclipse guards scattered, died.

Shepard rose from her cover, sprinting to the door, copper hair swishing across her face. She steadied her comm with one hand as she ran, "Joker? I'm killing people now, thinking of you."

"There's a landing pad to the east—tell him to send the shuttle." Kasumi was a swift shade at her side, thin limbs moving in a graceful lope.

"Did you get that, flyboy?"

"_Loud and clear, ma'am."_

They ran down a corridor and into another fight. This time, Shepard switched to her sniper as she crouched behind some solid crates. Always a good source of cover.

Lean, zoom, hold your breath—kill. And again. Again. She pulled back as Kasumi appeared from nowhere, dealing a death-blow to an unsuspecting merc only to vanish as his compatriots turned in confusion.

Thoom. Thoom. The footfalls of a heavy mech. _**Shit.**_ Shepard reloaded, using the scope to get a better view.

YMIR. Instantly, her brain ran through a list of its capabilities, weapons…weaknesses. It lifted a ponderous arm and fired a missile at her. She ducked back behind the crates just in time, flame blooming around her shields, heat tightening the skin on her face. This corridor was too small—they'd die if they didn't take care of it now.

"Use your Overload!" she screamed to Kasumi. The thief nodded, tweaking her omnitool, and Shepard peered through her scope again. She fired into the mech's 'face', sparks flying at the impact, glass fragmenting away into darkness. The Overload blew away its shields and she fired shot after shot into the small black circle until it stumbled, fell, and exploded.

Gargled screams indicated that the conflagration had incapacitated the remaining mercs—Myla swallowed her pity and ran into the next room. It looked like a garage.

"There's a passage at the other end," Kasumi observed, breath even despite their frantic pace, "If we could just—"

Eclipse guards streamed into the room, strafing at the speeding intruders, and the menacing footsteps of an approaching heavy mech made the floor shake.

"Damn! Ignore them, run!" Shepard pushed the thief toward the dark square entrance, inwardly hoping they'd evade the inevitable missile. The door to the passage started to shut.

She screamed inwardly, pushing her legs past what, as a soldier, she knew she should. Aching tomorrow for sure. Cramping tonight if she was lucky. Only feet left between them and a possibly life-saving shortcut—she launched herself toward the dark space, now only three feet tall, and prayed that she'd clear the door on the skid. She liked having legs. Kasumi was in—her more flexible armor letting her scramble up quickly. The thief seized her wrists and heaved, dragging her legs out of the way of the collapsing door.

It closed with a crash and they looked at it silently for a moment, then took off running again.


	18. Regulations

**A/N: I've edited to try and give more of Shepard's motivation for her…actions. As always, please review with further advice or comments if something strikes you as odd or wrong.**

….

Shepard popped a heat sink from the chamber of her trusty sniper rifle, grinning at the satisfying crack, the golden flash as it spun away. She touched her comm.

"All clear, Kasumi—go get the bastard."

Hock's gunship roared through the sky, shields shimmering in the fading sunlight, mounted guns strafing yellow threads which slammed heavily into the other side of Shepard's cover.

"I'm on it." Kasumi's voice was level, determined. Myla couldn't see her, but when the slugs stopped pounding her crate, she knew Goto was out. She stood.

The thief was sprinting to a stack of construction beams, Hock's fire trailing at her heels. Shepard switched to her Kassa, firing against the gunship's windshield, trying to convince him to switch targets.

"_Shepard, the shuttle's on approach."_ Joker's familiar tones were tense, barely controlled, and she could imagine his green eye's glued to her camera feed; for a moment, she wanted to tell him that it'd be okay, that everything would be—

Hock moved the ship to face her. Somehow, despite the distance, she could see the hate on his face, the cruel smile, his finger pulled a trigger.

A long-range missile screamed away from the ship, its red-capped head pointing right between her eyes. Coming fast, too fast.

"_Shepard!"_

She ducked down, palms slapping against the metal grill of the landing pad walkway. The missile shot over, behind her, exploded against another stack of crates. Shrapnel, a fireball—her shields sputtered out and died. A chunk of plastic caught her full on the back of her head, knocking off her visor.

"Shit." She reached for it and a secondary explosion went off, the force sending her sprawling. **Flames engulfed the town-**

"_Shepard!"_ She gasped against the heat, felt something bite at her cheek, burning. _**Must've been storing ammo.**_ She strained for the visor, nudged it with a finger.

"I'm okay, Jeff, I'm…" She wiped at her cheek, felt blood. **Spatter against her face, warm on her skin. Metallic on her tongue, like when Breckin dared her to lick a plowshare.** She got up, legs shaking.

"_Don't do that to me again, you hear?"_ His voice was ragged. Her visor was linked to her vitals— it must've looked like she flat-lined. She smiled, childishly glad that he cared. _**Of course he cares, he's your friend. Friends care.**_

"Can't talk now." Kasumi flew through the air—lithe and impossibly graceful, landing heavily on Hock's windshield, energy crackling about her omnitool. Shepard jammed her visor back on, letting Joker see the fun. The slender thief gave Hock a saucy wave before flipping off and away.

Shepard kept her eyes on the gunship, raising her M90 Cain. The shield sparked, shimmered, vanished.

"Goodbye, Mr. Hock," Kasumi whispered, coming to stand at Myla's shoulder. She nodded curtly and Shepard pulled the trigger.

They watched the sunburst as the gunship was swallowed whole.

"Well," Kasumi sighed, looking up to the landing platform where the shuttle was touching down, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Shepard snorted. "Aside from the formal wear? No, not too bad."

They jogged up the steps and boarded the shuttle.

"What'd you do with—"

"Oh, I ditched the heels," Shepard shrugged apologetically, "I'll pay you back."

"_What did you do with the dress?"_

"I've got it here somewhere…it didn't seem right to just toss it."

"Good," Kasumi smiled, settling into the shuttle seat, "You should really wear it again, Shep."

"Right, because I have so many opportunities to dress like a—"

"Woman?" Kasumi smirked.

"No," Shepard felt that old flare of anger, saw the jeering faces of her male classmates at the Academy, "Wearing a dress is _not_ dressing like a woman—it's useless, it's revealing and you can't even sit down properly in it!" _**'Beautiful' is just a way to objectify a woman, just a way to get what you want. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and in whatever the beholder wants from the subject.**_

"Hm," Kasumi pulled Keiji's graybox from a belt pouch, and Shepard felt childish and petty. _**She doesn't mean any harm, you should-**_

"_Woof, Commander, ya know, you could always go nude next time."_

Myla glanced at Kasumi—the other woman was intent on unlocking the graybox, a blue holographic interface shielding her eyes. Shepard curled away, hissing into her comm, "Okay, Lieutenant, we need to set some ground rules."

"_I'm all ears, beautiful_."

She closed her eyes. "First off, stop calling me that." **Evynne screamed.**

"_Why_?"

"For one thing, it's unprofessional. Cerberus doesn't have rules against…" she blushed, "Fraternization, but when the Collectors are dust, we're Alliance-bound. Back to regs. And I'm not beautiful, okay?" **The batarian laughed, sharp teeth gleaming.**

"_Okay, Commander_—"

EDI's voice cut in, "Approximately one minute until docking, Shepard."

Joker continued stubbornly, "_You either have some weird hang-up about the word, a serious self-confidence issue, or you're genuinely deluded. You are beautiful_."

"I—" **Evynne, still, her dark eyes staring into forever. Beautiful**_**. He doesn't know, he's just trying to-**_

"_As for the rest,_" he pressed on, steam-rolling her protest, "_What the hell are we doing? You know we're past the Alliance. Shit, Shepard, did you expect us to go back and pretend this never happened? They'll take you back, but they kicked me out._"

"Joker…" She wanted to tell him, she wanted to keep their…relationship, whatever the hell it was, on the same track, hopefully moving toward that future she had promised herself never to consider. But the Alliance was a part of her, too. She didn't know if she could handle letting that go, knew he couldn't stop flying.

"_And, what the hell, why not enjoy the lack of regs_?"

She flushed, "I don't…that's cheap, I don't want that." _**It's worth waiting for, isn't it? Please say you don't just want sex…**_

"_You sure? Any guy would be more than lucky to have you. Sometimes I think you_—" _**Have**__** me? Like a fucking **__**toy**__**? I am not going to, to…**_Shepard tried to take a deep breath, tried to calm down, but she couldn't help thinking of him, thinking of her like a piece of meat. _**You were different! I always thought…**_**Evynne pushed against the wall, blood flowing from—**no, no, no!__

The shuttle docked with a thump and Shepard flew out the hatch, fury reddening her cheeks. She whipped the visor off her head and sprinted to the elevator, cursing the slow system.

_**Why 'beautiful'? Just like all the other assholes at the Academy—you don't want me, don't care about who I am, you just see something to **_**have**_**, to **_**possess**_**, don't you? I'm not wearing the damn dress anymore—I'm dirty, I'm bloody, I'm in my armor. You want this, flyboy? I'll give you this.**_

Finally—the CIC. She pushed Chambers out of the way as she raced to the cockpit. He was waiting for her, arms crossed, unsmiling. She almost stopped, remembering his easy grin, the flashes of something promising in his eyes…** 'Beautiful,' hissed the batarian in her ear—**stop. The grins of Academy upperclassmen, flattering whispers turning to cruel jeers when she'd set them in their place. _**Please show me you're different.**_ Kaiden, asking for something she was unwilling to give. Green eyes, flashing with a secret humor, a private glance…_**I thought you…**_no, after all this shit, he'd called her…_**what do you want from me?**_

She stalked up to him, chest heaving, cut cheek stinging, and glared at him, suddenly grabbing his shirtfront and kissing him hard. She didn't think about his taste or how he felt or—she bit at his lip as she pulled away, anger humming in her veins.

"Is that it? Is that what you want? Or do you only want me half-naked?"

He shook his head slowly, dark green eyes never leaving hers. He stood and moved close to her, put a hand beneath her hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her into a gentle kiss. She closed her eyes, feeling a part of herself melt, soften. Warmth.

He broke away, adjusting his cap. "_That_ is what I want. Don't you? I don't give a shit if you're in a dress or in armor or in a dinosaur suit. It's you, Shepard."

"I…" she licked her lips uncertainly. What could she say? She was wrong, hadn't given him enough credit. Not all men were…She did want this, him. She'd wanted it for a long time, but how could they start anything with the Collectors so close? And the Reapers? Gods, he was as sweet as she had dreamed…

He brought a hand up to her cheek, his thumb gently tracing the cut.

"You should go see Chakwas about that. I'll be here if you wanna talk."

She nodded, wanting to say _something_, but everything sounded too cliché, too vapid or meaningless, so she left. _**I'm sorry.**_


	19. Memory

_ They came during the night, when most of the village was asleep. Batarian raiders, looking to swell their supplies of specialized cargo—human slaves._

_ Myla Shepard woke to the smell of smoke in her nostrils and a woman's screams._

_ "C'mon!" Her older brother pulled away her blankets, grabbed her little hands, "Help me with Evynne!"_

_ Thackery Shepard was fifteen, Evynne thirteen, and Myla eight. They'd shared a bedroom for as long as Myla could remember and Evynne had always been a deep sleeper. They pushed her, cried for her to wake up, pulled her out of bed when she opened her large brown eyes._

_ Evynne was beautiful, all the townsfolk whispered, hair like fire and deep eyes—as large and as dark as a doe's._

_ The screaming stopped._

_ The Shepard children crept down the stairs, bare feet noiseless. The living room—Myla looked out a window to see flames and small black shapes running in terror._

_ "Get in the cellar!" Rayn Shepard rushed in from outside the house, one hand clutched to her swollen belly. She grabbed Thackery's shoulder with the other. "Get to the root cellar and hide—don't come out no matter what you hear, alright?"_

_ He nodded numbly, Evynne bit her lip._

_ "Where's Papa?" Myla asked, peering behind her pregnant mother._

_ "Sweetie, your father and I are going to be right here when you come out, okay? Just go to the cellar and be very, very quiet." She shut the door behind her and locked it. Her honey brown hair, normally so sleek, was escaping in strands from her bun, hanging around her sweaty face._

_ She looked back to see that her children were still there; her green eyes were frantic with fear, sadness, and desperation. "Now!"_

_ Thackery, Evynne, and Myla ran to the little cellar door and threw themselves in, a creeping fear making their hearts beat faster, their pupils dilate into round pools of mindless black. Myla slammed the door closed and the three huddled against the wall in the darkness._

_ There had never been any lights in the cellar, but it was never a scary blackness. Always, the garlands of herbs hanging from the ceiling and the sacks of vegetables in the corners of the room filled it with the smells of Papa Shepard's cooking and the heavy natural musk of good earth. But now the shadows could hide anything, and the children were frightened._

_ Myla sniffed for the comforting scent of potatoes—the Mindoir colony's staple crop—but smelled only the acrid stench of fear-sweat._

_ There was a great crash outside the cellar, and Rayn Shepard screamed. The children clutched each other, mouths opened to scream soundlessly along. Harsh voices, another crash, a grunt, and their mother fell silent._

_ The cellar door had been made during an unusually dry summer—as time went on and the weather changed, it had warped in some places, shrunk in others, expanded here and there, so that it did not join with the wall's opening, hanging somewhat crookedly on rusted hinges. Golden light flowed in around the cracks, burning a bright outline of a twisted rectangle into Myla's retinas._

_ Deep voices growled, rose and fell. A shadow passed in front of the door. Something broke from the direction of the kitchen and Evynne flinched, but they were silent._

_ The voices faded away, and all three Shepards strained to hear the slightest noise—nothing above the pounding of their hearts and their ragged gasps of breath._

_ Thackery stood, letting go of his sisters' hands._

_ "I'm going to find Papa," he whispered._

_ Evynne and Myla shook their heads, but he ignored their muted protests, creeping up the shallow stairs to the door, slowly opening it. The rusted hinges squeaked once, and all three children flinched—Thackery waited for a moment, frozen. Myla couldn't hear anything. Her brother carefully stepped out, closed the door behind him, and Myla watched his shadow slide out of view._

_ Silence._

_ The earth floor was cold and damp against Myla's calves, a chill seemed to rise from the darkness. Myla was rooted to the floor, unable to move or speak, her eyes drawn to the door by an inescapable pull, an otherworldly force. Evynne whimpered softly, Myla turned and saw an animal fear in her sister's doe-dark eyes._

_ A shadow crossed the golden outline and her heart leaped into her throat._

_ "It's okay, Ev, it's Thackery," Myla stood, her pulse racing, sticking a hand down to help her sister up._

_ The door crashed open and two hulking figures stood in the entry, their pitch silhouettes gilded with the light. Evynne screamed and Myla ran to the corner of the room, looking for anything, anything. Harsh, guttural voices roared in a language she did not understand, and she felt claws tear at the back of her shirt._

_ She dove behind a sack of potatoes, felt something cold and sharp bite into her side. Evil laughter rumbled from the chests of the raiders, and her sister screamed again. Myla's fingers found the handle of a crop scythe._

_ "No, no, no!" She looked up to see one batarian pick her sister up by the throat and push her against the wall—her bare feet flashed as she kicked out ineffectually._

_ A bulbous face thrust itself in front of the scene—sharp teeth flashed as it grinned._

_ "She's beautiful, that one. She'll fetch a good price as a pleasure slave if Haktar doesn't ruin her."_

_ Evynne screamed and screamed and Myla screamed too, sobbing with hate and confusion. The batarian leaned closed, examining her face in the shadow, sniffing at her neck._

_ "Beautiful," he hissed into her ear. "Too bad you're not. Farmer's whelp, though, so you'll be good labor." He reached for her shoulders and Myla felt a surge of adrenaline._

_ Her hand gripped the scythe and swung—the cruel blade caught the batarian in the chest with a sick crunch. He choked, looked down at the wound, up at her. She saw herself in those four black pools, saw whatever intelligence within the raider dim and fade. She tugged at the handle but the blade would not come free._

_ "What the hell?" Myla looked up. The other batarian, hand still closed over the throat of her sister, was squinting at the shape of his fellow on the ground. Evynne whimpered, pinned in the flood of golden light from the open door, bright blood staining her skirt, running down her bare legs, pooling on the floor beneath her. Tears made silver tracks on her cheeks._

_ Myla hauled at the scythe for all she was worth, heart pounding, instincts screaming. She heard the other batarian snarl in rage, heard the snick of a knife being pulled free of its sheath._

_ She looked up in time to see Haktar slit her sister's pale throat and drop her to the floor, turning to the last Shepard in rage._

_ Myla screamed, pulling at the handle desperately, feeling it start to break free._

_ "You little bitch, when I'm finished with you—" The batarian tripped over the sack of potatoes, falling heavily to the ground._

_ The blade came loose and Myla swung the scythe high and brought it down on the prone raider's head, again and again and again, her grunts of effort and the increasingly wet reports the only sounds in the cellar. Warm blood spattered against her face, hot on her cheek, metallic in her mouth like when the village bully, Breckin, had dared her to lick a plowshare. Her weapon bit into the floor, stuck, and she ran, sobbing, from the gory mess to her sister._

_ "Evynne—" Her sister's eyes were wide open, staring. She was still so beautiful. "Ev…" Myla prodded her shoulder and her head lolled back, her throat a crimson grin._

_ "Evynne!" Myla pulled her sister up in a sitting position, combing the fiery hair with her fingers, now tacky with batarian and human blood._

_ Beautiful. Her sister's still face. Her sister was beautiful, she was not. The batarian's words echoed in her ears and she clutched her older sister to her, tears drying, rocking the body as if to soothe her sister's spirit._

_ When the Alliance rescue team found her two days later, they had to give her a sedative to get her to release the corpse._

Myla sat bolt upright in bed, gasping, the stitches in her cheek burned.

She rolled out of bed, flopping heavily to the floor when her twisted sheets caught around her ankles.

**Her sister's eyes were wide and staring—**no. She kicked the bedclothes away, standing with legs that shook. She'd been right at Hock's mansion, her thighs were dead tired, painfully sore. **The smell of blood on her hands, in her hair**—no! She staggered to her bathroom and fell to her knees in front of the toilet, vomiting violently. She flushed it all away, then again for no reason.

She stared at the swirling water—clean against the dark metal bowl.

She wished she could forget. Silver lining? At least she didn't have solipsism…Right, a real comfort, that. Memories haunted her dreams in perfect detail, had infested her waking life. She'd almost lost Joker because of them, almost pushed away…she rubbed her face wearily.

It was getting worse.

"_Let shit build up an' ya get damaged."_ Zaeed was right. She could feel her control slipping away, day by day. Flashbacks and nightmares were becoming more frequent…

She stood, bracing herself with one arm against the bathroom wall. Chakwas had said…maybe it _would_ help to talk to someone. She checked the time—late.

It didn't matter, he was always there.


	20. Therapy

Myla limped out of the elevator, thighs screaming with every step. _Gods, why did they have to make this cursed hallway so__** long**__?_ Past empty stations, lights still flickering brightly at unmanned consoles. She could see his chair up ahead and paused, remembering the kiss — the _real_ kiss. She hadn't exactly shown him how she felt — what if he thought she didn't reciprocate? What if she'd — Shepard pushed those clamoring thoughts aside, forcing her legs to start moving again. _Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit._

"Hey Joker." She stopped behind his chair, expecting him to swivel as always.

Nothing.

"Joker?" She peered around the side of the chair — if he wasn't here, Gainey should be on as relief. Was he just — oh.

She smiled, unable to hide her tender amusement at the sight of her helmsman—

"Mr. Moreau is asleep, Commander. Protocol dictates you should awaken him and summon the relief pilot. Failing the appointment of Mr. Gainey, I may serve as an acceptable substitute." EDI's voice was inordinately loud, and Shepard glanced at her pilot to make sure she hadn't woken him up.

"Ah, you go ahead and take the helm, EDI," Myla whispered, and as an afterthought added: "Could you lower your volume about fifty percent?"

"I am perfectly capable of reducing the decibel levels of my audio output," EDI's voice was much quieter this time, although her tone was distinctly pointed, "A fact that Mr. Moreau, however, does not seem to comprehend."

"He is rather fond of your mute button," Shepard grinned.

"I do not find the situation humorous, Commander. What if the Normandy's sensors pick up a threat and I am unable to alert the helmsman? Such a situation is in no way improbable and would likely result in crew casualties."

Shepard sighed, nodding to the little blue hologram, "I'll speak to him, EDI. You have a good point."

She eyed the long stretch of hall behind her, deciding that it would be far less painful just to stay in the cockpit. After all, he might wake up and she could talk to him.

She smirked as she lowered herself into a sitting position; a fast-assembling plot whispered in her mind, its appeal overshadowing the pain in her legs. "EDI, is there a camera in here?"

"Specify location. There are thirty-three cameras on the CIC deck, excluding the monitor in the elevator."

"In the cockpit with a view of the pilot's chair." Sometimes VIs could be annoyingly literal and Shepard got the feeling AIs were no different.

"Yes."

"Would it be possible to… pause the feed and send a copy of the still-frame to a media file?"

"It would be possible, Shepard, but I fail to see the practical merit of such an action."

Shepard spotted the camera and scooted out of its field of view, "Are you familiar with the organic concept of blackmail?"

The hologram flickered, "Ah, a morally suspect method of persuasion — I believe it is a common practice in modern and historical politics."

"You got it. Take the still, please." She told herself it would be funny to hold over his head, but deep down, she knew she just wanted to have a picture of him like this — peaceful, unguarded, and amusingly cute.

"… Media file obtained. Where would you like it sent?"

Myla grinned, "My personal omnitool, please. Thanks, EDI." She scooted back to her old position.

"I find it… curious to be taking part in a plot against Mr. Moreau. Usually, he is the one taking measures against me. The turn of events is not unpleasant."

Shepard cocked her head, suddenly feeling sorry for the ship's computer. "He teases you, sure, but he's never done anything really _hostile_, has he?"

"Not as such, however, he has made a nuisance of himself." The AI's voice was, if possible, resentful. Myla bit her lip to keep from laughing — EDI sounded like a crotchety spinster.

"Well, you have my permission get him back," she offered, remembering the way his voice cracked when he was irritated. _Let him be on the receiving end of vexation, for once!_

"Thank you, Shepard." The blue hologram flickered out; judging from her tone, she had withdrawn to consider possible pranks.

Shepard stretched her legs gingerly, looking at her pilot's sleeping form.

His hat was slightly askew, a few tufts of mussy dark brown hair had escaped from the black-and-white confines of his cap. He still kept it regulation-short, but it looked soft; her fingers twitched to touch it, but she held herself back with a grin. That wasn't the best part, not why she'd taken the still.

Joker was curled up on his much-loved leather seat — not drastically so, like in a fetal position, just turned on his side, legs together and bent up towards his chest. One arm was slung over the edge of the seat, his fingers suspended inches from her shoulder, the other was tucked comfortably against the chair's back. _Cute_, she thought, smiling, knowing he'd protest the adjective. _Definitely not what I would have expected._

She probably should have been annoyed or scared that her pilot had fallen asleep at the helm, but they _had_ been pretty busy for the past few weeks, and EDI was programmed to take control in an emergency should the pilot be unable to respond. She was free to look at him now, just to look, without worrying about getting caught.

He looked peaceful, open. She noticed with some surprise that he had small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes — that wasn't right, he was only… she realized with a jolt that he was, technically, older than her now. She'd only been a year his senior when she died… those two years had marked him, and she hadn't been there to change with him, with any of her friends. She sobered, thinking of how Garrus, Tali, Kaiden, and Liara had changed — a moment of silence for the loss of innocence. _The galaxy is falling apart and time still takes its toll._

He stirred, groaning slightly and disrupting her gloomy train of thought. She switched her gaze hurriedly to the stars, following the blue ripples that signified FTL travel. She hoped he'd just go back to sleep, unsure if she had the right to rob him of his solitude and whether she was really willing to talk about her private past.

"Mmm." He twisted, stretching his legs. _Damn, he really was waking up_. She sat on one leg, bending back to stretch her aching thigh.

Joker yawned, green eyes opening to slits. He spotted her and choked, "What are you doing here?"

She heaved a theatrical sigh, "Well, _someone_ had to fly the ship while you were snoozing."

He grunted, sitting up and readjusting his cap, "I'm surprised we're still alive then. Sorry about that, Commander, it won't happen again."

"Ah, don't be, and it will. You should really let Gainey spell you, you're always up here."

He shrugged, cracking his knuckles, "I like it. I never get any sleep in crew quarters, my chair is awesome, and I don't trust other pilots. EDI… it's a pain in the ass most of the time, but I can handle using it for cruise control."

Shepard smiled, wondering how long it would take the AI to come up with something good. "She doesn't like you muting her all the time, by the way."

"Aw, Shepard," he grinned down at her, expression still sleepily softened, "I told you — I only mute it when you come over. Okay, sometimes I may just _happen to_ forget to unmute it later, but, seriously…"

"Joker, she's got a volume control you can adjust. Besides just the mute."

"Really? How do you know?"

"I asked her to be quieter so she wouldn't wake you up." She looked up at the indecipherable orange displays.

"… Just how long have you been up here, exactly?" His voice was warm, amused, but she could hear the sleepy tone fading.

"Mm, I don't know, five minutes or so. I wanted to talk to you, but you were asleep, so…"

"You watched me sleep? Kinky, Commander. What'd you want to talk about?" His eyes were clear now, all drowsiness dispelled.

"I, um," she didn't want to ruin this peaceful easy moment, but she doubted she'd be able to talk about it later, "I owe you an explanation… and an apology for earlier."

"Oh, uh… okay." He shifted awkwardly in his chair.

"That was really… inappropriate of me. I violated your personal space and I freaked out without… I was wrong." Her ass was going numb, so she got up, hissing in pain, and sat up on an inactive console. She forced herself to look him straight in the face. "You mean a lot to me and I… I can't lose you over something like that." _I need you._

"Shepard… I know you're under a shitload of pressure, okay? I get that. You run yourself ragged and, ah, you should know I'll always be here for you." He tugged at the brim of his cap, clearly uncomfortable.

"I do, Jeff, thanks," she whispered, dropping her gaze. She could feel tears start to prick at her eyes, but blinked them away. _Save them for later, you'll need them later._ Chakwas had called Shepard an anchor (although she had done so while severely inebriated), but Myla knew she wasn't that stable. Sometimes… She shook her head, "Okay, that was my apology."

She took a deep breath and told him about the Mindoir raid, haltingly at first, then in a rush as the initial pain and unease faded. It hurt coming out, but it was a good kind of hurt, like losing a tooth. She told him about Evynne, about the basement, about what she saw and felt whenever she heard the word 'beautiful' applied to herself. It seemed to stretch on forever but ended faster than she thought it would.

He leaned back as she concluded, his dark eyes unreadable.

"I… I've never told anyone about all this before." She twisted her hands in her lap.

"Shit, Shepard, you've been holding on to that for, what? Twenty plus years?" He lifted his cap and ran a hand over his hair in restless disbelief, "No wonder you flipped. Um, how often do you get these nightmares?"

"Almost every night I manage to sleep since they… brought me back. Thankfully, I have a few that alternate, so I'm not always reliving the same damn thing." Something flashed in his eyes, angry, but it was quickly replaced by a rare concern.

"Did you talk to Chakwas at all?"

"Yeah. No meds — she, um, said to talk to someone I trusted."

"Me? Score." He winked, an obvious attempt to cheer her up, but she laughed all the same. Suddenly, she was choking on a swell of inexplicable sadness, bracing her elbows on her legs, hiding her face in her hands. Oh no, she didn't want him to see her like this, to shame him with her tears, to — it was too late and she couldn't stop.

"Oh shit." She heard him stand up, limp over to her. "Um… do you want to sit in the chair? Would that be better?"

She couldn't answer him. _Oh Evynne._ She could finally grieve for her sister, her brother, her family, for the little girl in the dark root cellar who lost everything she had ever known. She'd told the psychologists, the doctors, the counselors… she'd given the sterile summary before, but this — it felt fresh, raw. _**Doe eyes wide in the dark.**_ She heard her sister's laugh, saw Thackery's petulant frown, the lines that creased her mother's cheeks when she smiled, her father's calloused palms were wide and dry. A flood of forgotten scenes, smells, sounds, stolen by that raid as surely as the other children of the village, came rushing back, almost too vivid to bear.

Joker's fingers grazed her shoulders uncertainly. She sobbed, nodding, and he pulled her to him in a warm embrace. Myla pressed her face to his chest, her tears wetting his shirt, taking in his heat and his scent. He whispered haltingly to her — she couldn't decipher the words, but the buzz of his voice in his chest was enough.

She took a deep shuddering breath, felt the aching knot in her breast loosen, pain fading. Joker's words gained shape and clarity.

"You're okay, you're okay… c'mon, Commander, you're okay… shit, what do I do? You're okay…"

Myla sniffed, pulling back and wiping her streaming nose on the back of her hand.

"Th-thank you. I'm sorry."

"Ah, don't worry about it." He stepped away, grinning awkwardly. "I love it when women cry on me. Makes me feel all masculine and shit. Um, you better?"

"Yeah… I think I've needed that for a long time." Shepard rubbed her eyes, mustering a smile, "So, is there anything _you_ wanna talk about?"

His positive façade slipped, and he regarded her seriously. Dark emerald eyes searched pale jade ones and he shook his head slowly. "Yeah, but not now. You need sleep and Gainey needs to get his lazy ass outta bed."

Shepard nodded and gingerly lowered herself from the console, her sore legs protesting persistently. He pretended to scowl as she limped over.

"What the hell, Commander? You mocking me?" She'd never heard him joke about his condition in any way other than bitterly. _I guess Cerberus really did help him out._

"No! No, I'm just really, really sore." She bumped his shoulder with her own as they walked back through the empty CIC.

"Yeah, I bet you say that to all the guys." He grinned playfully and she swiped at his cap.

"Har-de-freaking-har, wise-ass. Just keep it up."

"Or what?" They got in the elevator, Shepard pushing the button for her cabin and Joker the one for crew quarters. He smirked at her, green eyes shining.

_He was so…_

She waved her arm, omnitool flaring bright orange. She made a superior face. "I have incriminating evidence. Cross me and the whole ship will see some interesting pictures."

"What?" He laughed in disbelief, holding his hands up in surrender. "I don't even wanna know what you have! Okay, I'll play nice, for now, if you give me an answer."

_Oh gods, not this again._

She blinked innocently, "What question am I supposed to be answering?"

He rolled his eyes. "Almost got me, Commander, you're so _good_ at playing dumb!"

"Insults shall get you nowhere, sir." He smiled, but didn't say anything, a sadness coming back into his eyes.

The elevator was always slow, but it now it seemed not even to move. She looked up at the ceiling, choosing her words carefully.

"When this whole Reaper mess is finally over, I think I'd like to retire from active duty… maybe teach at the Academy. Settle down somewhere quiet, have a few kids. I don't know. Why? What do you want?" The elevator stopped, opened, but she didn't leave, searching his dark clear eyes.

He leaned back against the wall of the elevator, the bill of his cap shading his face from further scrutiny. _Intentional or unconscious?_ "Why? I'll tell you, maybe, but later. I know what I want, but I haven't really set on what I'm going to do about it."

Shepard nodded sadly, stepping towards her cabin. If he didn't want to talk, she wouldn't force him. She'd already made him uncomfortable enough for one night. "Goodnight, Joker. Thank you for… " _Listening? Helping?_ "… being there." _Always._

He nodded, giving her a funny little half-smile, "'Night, Commander." The elevator door closed between them.

Shepard stood for a while, thinking, then turned and went back to bed.

She slept soundly, peacefully, and did not dream.

...

**A/N: Thank you to ShadesofMauve for her excellent beta-reading and input! :)**


	21. It's a Trap!

"Shepard — I believe this was a trap."

**_No shit, Sherlock!_** Myla gritted her teeth, leaning out from behind the strange glossy honey-comb to fire at a descending platform of Collector drones.

"I'd figured that out myself, thanks EDI. Guys!" She snapped at the mic to get the attention of her squad, who were happily shooting at the incoming enemy. "Fall back — we need to get out."

Jack growled and let loose a wave of biotic energy that knocked the twisted mockeries of Protheans from their platform.

"Why the hell didn't ya do tha' with the first two bloody platforms?" demanded Zaeed, using the barrel of his assault rifle to scratch the long scar on his face. Jack flipped him off, grinning.

"_Shepard, tell the kids to stop flirting and move!"_ She grinned at the sound of Joker's voice, glancing over her shoulder and waving her team forward.

"Let's go, ducklings!"

They raced over uneven ground, not stopping to marvel at the trillions of empty pods, the rows and rows of expectant vessels that stretched as far as the eye could see. The whir of insect wings crackled all around them, walls gleaming wetly with… Shepard didn't want to know.

Through dark halls — skid, stop. _**Cut off. Cut off, cut off, cut off**_ — don't panic. They had the high ground — good defensive position. A low wall-cover. The enemies would—

"Grab cover!" she yelled, as a moaning wave of husks surged out of an adjoining room, accompanied by several lurching scions and a handful of Collectors. A violent thrumming announced the arrival of another giant… what the hell _was_ that thing? The tremors hummed, she felt it buzz in her sternum.

"Hey, ugly — it's your special friend from Horizon," Jack sniggered, reloading her SMG.

"If you're so tough, _you_ take it out instead 'a mouthin' off like a — " the grizzled old merc lobbed a grenade into a mass of zombies It exploded in a blinding fireball, completely incinerating the husks. He continued as if nothing had happened, "-bleeding little two-year-old."

_**BZZZEEEEEEW!**_ A particle beam blasted against the low rock outcropping, and brilliant molten drops of what had once been solid stone flew through the air. Shepard switched to her Kassa, wishing she'd brought the Cain.

"If you two decide to do anything other than _talk_," Shepard grinned, adrenaline singing in her veins, "I'll need therapy to get over the shock."

She sprang out of cover, using her omnitool to overload the thing's shields, getting six solid shots in before it turned its weapon on her.

"Shi—" _**BZZZEEEEEEW!**_ It hit her full on in the chest, immediately overtaxing her shields and knocking her back. This saved her life — the force of the beam pushed her to the ground where the angle of the low wall that she should have been using as cover and the fortuitous placement of a stone column prevented the thing from finishing her off.

Zaeed stood and fired a burst of incendiary ammo at the bobbing menace, letting Myla scramble back to safety.

Jack grinned, shaking her head as a stream of profanities filtered over the comm channel. Shepard bit her lip, waiting for the iridescent blue blip that meant her shield had recharged. She shouldn't have jumped out like that. She'd thought she was past this. _**Sloppy**._

EDI's clipped tones interrupted her internal beration. "If you clear the hostiles, I can safely override the locks to the door on the far side of the room. Schematics indicate that the alternate route would join with the original —"

"Thanks, EDI, we're on it." Her shields were back online and she nodded to her squadmates, "Jack — take left. Zaeed — go around the right. I'll try and draw its fire."

"_Shepard, this thing is powering up its engines. Get your ass back here — I'm not losing another Normandy!"_

"What, you gonna leave me, Joker?" She popped out of cover, firing determinedly.

He cursed her again; she grinned. Her smile grew wider when a biotically reinforced bullet slammed into the floating monstrosity, ripping through its shields and downing it.

Jack's crow of triumph reverberated in the large chamber, followed shortly by staccato footfalls as the three took off running again. She shot a teasing glance at Zaeed as they moved.

"Huh, looks like the old-timer was too slow for the kill. I'll let you have the next one, Gramps."

Several minutes of useless banter and a few brief periods of extremely graphic violence later, they had managed to reach the Normandy SR2.

As Shepard's boots touched down on familiar metal, her ship, her home, she heard the marrow chilling roar of the Collector vessel's engines coming online. Jack and Zaeed were firing around her at pursuing drones, their eyes narrowed in concentration, their faces lit with strobing muzzle-flare.

"Go, Jeff, go!" She yelled into her mic, sealing the hatch behind her. She didn't wait for his response, tearing through the ship to get to the cockpit. If the thing's engines were up, its weapons wouldn't be far behind.

She reached his chair, almost crashing into it, just in time to see the monstrosity turn laboriously towards their ship. Joker's hands moved frantically, but he was in complete control — the look of furious concentration on his face was the only sign he was worried. His lips moved slightly, muttering something over and over again.

A golden glow was gathering within the depths of the Collector vessel and he moved faster, plotting points and adjusting pitch and… Shepard's knowledge of navigational terms failed her.

"Get us outta here, EDI!" He kept his eyes glued to the displays.

The colossal ship fired — Shepard's breath caught in her throat. _**Not again, not—**_

The Normandy swooped neatly over — under, around…damn the lack of accurate directional terminology in space! — to avoid the murderous beam.

"Not this time, you bastard," Joker spat, his voice heavy with hate. Myla looked down — his eyes were alight with something that scared her.

EDI's passionless tones struck an unsettling contrast to the tension of the moment. "Specify location, Mr. Moreau."

The Normandy shook as Joker pulled her into a sharp turn, an evasive maneuver which would have sheered most Alliance ships in half.

The Collector weapon was charging up again. They couldn't outrun it.

"Anywhere that's not _here!_"

The Collector ship fired, but the Normandy was already gone.

...

**A/N: Thank you once more to ShadesofMauve for her awesome beta-reading and patience! :)**

**As always, please review-I'm lonely.**


	22. Drama

Myla pulled her helmet off, sighing with relief. She ran her gloved fingers through her hair a few times, loosening it into sweaty strands.

"Good job, Joker. You always pull my ass out of the fire."

He glared at her. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

She blinked. "What?"

He saw her confusion and backed down, passing a hand over his eyes. "Sorry, forget it." He slumped in his chair, staring moodily out into space.

"You okay?" Myla set her helmet down on the console she'd sat on last night. She started pulling off her gauntlets, watching his face critically.

His dark green eyes were shadowed. "Yeah. I'm always okay."

"Hey, I owe you from last night," she smiled down at him, laying pieces of armor by her helmet. "This is your chance to vent."

He looked at her seriously. "You don't owe me anything."

She removed a bulky shoulder pad, inspecting it casually for damage, "Are you sure? You don't need me to go save a puppy or take out an old enemy for your loyalty? I'm already running errands for the others." She meant it as a joke, but he didn't smile.

He snorted. "Nah, you've got my allegiance, Commander."

She swallowed. "That means a lot, Joker. Thank you." Everyone wanted something from her — even old friends like Tali and Garrus. It wasn't that she minded helping them out, but sometimes she wished they'd suspend the personal issues in face of the galactic threat.

He shook his head mutely, wide mouth a thin line. She decided to switch topics. _**So, that kiss—**_

"So, um, why did you want to know about my plans?" She bent down, removing her calf-guards, hoping he wouldn't see her blush.

"I wanted to know what I'd robbed you of." His voice was low and bitter.

"You…" Myla didn't know what to say, and he turned on her, eyes flashing.

"Don't you care?" He gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles turning white. "You _died._ They bring you back and you act like it never happened! You're reckless — you take risks that you never used to —" He pointed at her chest, scowling. "See? Shit, Shepard."

Myla looked down and noticed that the once-smooth material of her breast-plate had a huge impact depression, warping and rumpling slightly outwards at the edges. That particle beam was stronger than she'd realized. _**He's right.**_

"Seriously, what the hell was that? That was the same ship, Shepard, the same damn ship…" He looked away from her. "It almost got you — got the Normandy twice."

Oh.

She stood in front of him, her arms folded sternly. "Almost. But it didn't. I'm still here, the Normandy's still in one piece, because _you_ flew us out to safety. You're right — I'm not as careful as I have been, as I should be, but I'll try to get better, okay? I have too much to do to die right now."

He laughed unhappily. "Oh, Commander, why do you have to be so… " No adjective was forthcoming.

She arched an eyebrow. "I'll… take that as a compliment, Lieutenant."

He gave her a bitter smile. "Sometimes I wish you'd just hate me. But you have to make jokes, you have to talk to me, you let me make my stupid cracks, you let me hear your nightmares, you let me hold you…"

Myla remembered how good it felt to have his arms around her, then thought back to the very real kiss he'd given her. He _had_ to know how she felt—how couldn't he?

"Jeff," she said slowly, looking down at him awkwardly, "I didn't 'let' you do those things—I wanted you to. I don't hate you, why should I?"

He opened his mouth, but EDI spoke first.

"The Illusive Man wishes to speak with you in the briefing room, Commander."

Joker smiled humorlessly, gaze sliding away from hers. "You better go, Commander, I figure you've got something to say to him."

_**I have more to say to **_**you.** But Myla could see he had shut her out, so, biting her tongue to keep from worsening matters, she set off for the briefing room. She felt frustrated and more than a little angry.

She didn't try to calm herself as she normally would have. If recent events had taught her anything, it was that sometimes you needed an outlet for these things — and the perfect outlet was waiting in the briefing room.

…..

"Unbelievable." Shepard flopped heavily on her favorite console, twitching her head to flick an errant strand of copper hair from her eyes.

"What'd TIM have to say for himself?" Joker seemed to have dismissed or at least suppressed his previous mood. Myla wondered briefly if she was relieved or dismayed, but she pushed the conflicted thoughts aside. She'd do her best to make it right, whatever was wrong with him, but she could see this wasn't the time. Plus, she was too bitter-going-on-pissed right now.

"Bastard knew it was a trap. Said if I knew it, it wouldn't look _legitimate_ and we'd lose 'em."

"Shit." He shook his head, hands curling into fists.

Myla leaned forward, smiling mockingly, "Do you want to know the best part?"

He tried to give his usual smartass smirk, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You—never mind, go ahead."

She wished she could make him happy again—her heart ached, but she filed that goal away for later. "He's found another 'dead' Reaper and he expects us to go gallivanting over and collect an IFF."

He shook his head again, "Let's just ditch him. Go rogue, find a nice tropical planet and get…" he grinned shamefacedly, and pulled his hat low, "…ah…"

"Away from it all?" She smiled, knowing full well he was thinking of something entirely different. Her heart beat a little faster; she saw the golden flash of a sunset, imagined the firelight promise in his eyes—but no, not now.

"That's the one." He met her gaze plainly now, a hunger and a caution and a hurt flickered in the dark green depths of his look.

"We can't," she sighed reluctantly, closing her eyes against tentative possibility, "There's the Collectors to deal with, and the Reapers…" _**Can't, we can't, stop thinking about it.**_

"Yeah, I read you, Commander," he said softly, diverting his attention to the duragel screens. "The whole 'greater-good' thing again. Just… be more careful from now on, yeah?"

"I promise, Joker." She stretched and stood, "Talk later."

"See ya, Commander."

She tried to snatch his hat on the way out but was rebuffed by a lazy slap to the wrist.

She headed back out to the CIC and her private terminal—she had resolved to check it periodically since…Billy's message.

A shadow crossed her thoughts, darkened her mood. Should she go after him? The origin of the message had been corrupted, but if Tali could clean it up a bit…still, there was no guarantee he hadn't left whatever planet he'd sent the message from. An investigation would doubtless prove ineffective and time-consuming.

Time.

That was certainly one thing she didn't have enough of.

Shepard nodded to Chambers and logged in.

No, Billy would wait until after the Collectors were dealt with, at the very least.

Shepard had made up her mind, but her decision did nothing to allay the guilt which whispered at her ears. It was her fault this madman was loose, her responsibility. Whoever he killed, whatever he did, would be her fault.

She opened an old message from the Illusive Man and blinked at the first sentence.

Information about the Shadow Broker. Liara's lovely face, still round with youth, now transformed with hate and obsession, flashed from the annals of Shepard's memories.

When she'd last seen her on Illium, the once awkward and reserved asari scientist had become a ruthless and cynical dealer of information, consumed by the rumors and secrets of the dark world of intrigue, espionage, and conspiracy, always searching, always hunting for the Shadow Broker and his agents. She would be ecstatic when she got this.

Shepard hesitated, fingers hovering over the holographic keyboard, poised to forward the data to T'soni's office.

If Myla had read this new Liara right, she'd go immediately, charging off to save her friend (or, as may be the case, to avenge him) and depose the evil entity. Alone, however powerful her biotics, she would die. Shepard had done similar things, and probably would again in the future, but she'd always had a plan, or a companion, or some kind of failsafe.

…_**be more careful from now on, yeah? ...**_

It would be dangerous, no doubt about it. From what Liara had told her already, the Shadow Broker was no longer a benign force of ultimate if subtle power, if he/she had ever been. Someone like that had to have extensive resources—money, manpower, the whole shebang…if they really were working for the Collectors or Reapers then that was just one more elusive and powerful foe that had to be dealt with. If she and Liara managed to take the information broker out, they would cripple whoever he/she aided and perhaps gain valuable intel of their own.

Besides, the Shadow Broker had already tried to kill Liara with that receptionist-assassin, it was unlikely he or she would just give up after one attempt was thwarted. She could certainly delay giving the asari this information, but would that decision lead to her death?

She closed the message and strode up the galaxy map's smooth ramp, selecting Illium decisively.

_**Out of the frying pan…**_

She had to deliver it in person and be there for her friend, to tag along and do what she could. She thought for a moment about the changes in T'soni, the indications of a passionate rashness… so much was different.

Her omnitool chimed, signaling an incoming message. Myla checked the tag: Lawson. Shepard opened the communication, sighing inwardly at the terse and unrevealing contents. It had been a long day and it was getting longer. Tomorrow, likely, would be no different. Resigned, she shut down her terminal and trudged to the elevator.

…_**and into the fire…**_

…

"Commander," Miranda's gray eyes were demanding. "Our new heading is Illium?"

"Yes." Shepard folded her arms, preparing for an argument. The Aussie managed to encapsulate the depths of her incredulity, disapproval, and scorn in one flip of her dark hair; she threw her weight on one hip.

"The IFF is a clear priority. The Illusive Man—"

"Just sent us into a trap, Miranda, forgive me if I'm loath to jump headfirst into another one." Myla winked to take the sting out of her words.

"Intel says it's a _dead_ Reaper, Shepard." Miranda arched an eyebrow and smiled as if comforting a frightened child.

"It said the same about the last one," the Spectre said pointedly. "If it really is dead, it'll keep for a few days. If it isn't, well, we could use a little break before going in."

Miranda nodded reluctantly, turning away from the other woman, slender fingers trailing over the top of her private terminal's screen.

"Have you heard from your sister?" Myla asked, the question springing unbidden to her mind.

Lawson seemed surprised, looking back over her shoulder, but her face visibly softened and she nodded. "We've been messaging. Just… talking."

"That's great." Myla smiled, genuinely happy for her.

"Yeah." Miranda turned her gaze to the floor. "I suppose I should thank you, Shepard. Without you, I'd never have talked to her…and my father…"

Myla shook her head. "I'm sure you would've done fine without my help. You let me know if you need anything else."

"Yes, Commander." Miranda saluted awkwardly, smiling—a true smile this time, and Shepard realized she really was lovely when pride didn't harden her features.

She nodded once and left.

ETA to Illium, just over sixteen hours. She debated going back to Joker and trying to get to the bottom of whatever was bothering him, but decided she'd already done too much… she needed some sleep if Liara's vendetta proved as dangerous as she feared it would be.

**A/N: As always, thanks to ShadesofMauve for her beta-magic!**

**Please review, ya'll :)**


	23. A Conversation Overdue

**A/N: Hey all, sorry about the long break-college applications, school starting up, blahblah excuses...anyway, I hope this was worth the wait.**

**As always, thanks and props to my awesome beta-reader, ShadesofMauve. If you haven't already, you should check out her Shoker series, _A Star to Steer Her By. _It's amazing and you, like me, will stalk it for updates. (An extra thanks to Mauve for preventing me from inciting all the Kaid_a_n fans to a torch-and-pitchfork frenzy)**

**Please review.**

**...**

Shepard awoke with a start and a gasp, heart pounding against her ribcage with savage intensity. Akuze. She wiped her sweaty forehead with one arm, noticing distantly that she'd kicked her sheets off entirely during her unconscious thrashings.

_**Deep breaths, slow.**_

She'd gotten counseling for this — one month at an intensive PTSD center, three with an Alliance therapist. She could work through this.

_**Deep breaths, slow.**_

She shuddered, remembering the wet noises of a private being torn in — no.

_**Deep breaths…**_

She inhaled deliberately, counting to ten. She couldn't bother him again — he obviously had some issues of his own. She held her breath for five counts.

_**Slow.**_

Exhale evenly for ten. _Gobbets of blood red, ruby red, rose red flesh hit the sand with pathetic little _— no. She tried to focus on her meditation.

_**Deep breaths, slow.**_

Hold for five. In for ten. Hold. _**There**_. Control your breathing, control your thought. That had been the claim of the orderlies, at any rate. Sometimes it worked. It definitely had helped her temper in the years that followed.

She was still sweating. She stripped off her casual sleepwear and went to her closet for something lighter. Black tanktop, fine. Some long shorts — whatever. She pulled them on, pausing as the blue glow of the aquarium flashed on the dogtags she'd picked from the soft gray ash of Alchera.

They weren't hers. Hers had been lost with her body, with her first life. These were slightly warped — the metal had been melted smooth by the planet's weak atmosphere, erasing the name of the dead crewmember it had belonged to. She kept them to remind herself of the price that she'd have to pay, the doubtlessly unacceptable death toll that the Reapers would exact upon the galaxy.

The tags caught the light perfectly for an instant, blinding her with blue.

_Chelsea Roberts' blue eyes, wide and too-bright with pain, fingers grasping at Myla's leg with impossible strength, bloody lips trembling._

_"Please."_

Shepard shook her head, trying to dislodge the grip of the memory, the one she hadn't included in her Akuze mission report.

_"Please." Her fingers weakened, slipping down to Shepard's boot, but the eyes, the eyes…_

_"Please."_

_Her finger on the trigger._

Shepard kneaded her temples until spots danced in front of her eyes. Pulse. Pulse. Quiet.

She stood, breathing a little too heavily in the utter silence of her room.

_**Maybe… maybe it wouldn't**_—

_A colossal thresher maw burst from the sand in a violent explosion of sound, arcing high in the arid heat of the desert planet, silhouetted for a terrible moment against a golden sky._

Myla rushed to the elevator, years of remembered training making the movements crisp, controlled, automatically avoiding the crazed rush of a green officer, but not evading the echo of Chelsea's plea.

…

There were more crewmembers up and about than there had been when she'd told him about Mindoir... gods, that had only been last night. She nodded sharply to Hadley and his friend as she passed them, biting her tongue. She didn't trust herself to talk just yet — she needed this _out_. She didn't stop to listen to their latest debate — the merits of ancient Earth pop culture… something about bats? She focused on the pilot seat, her bare feet soundless on the metal walkway.

_**Out of their earshot—**_

"I need you again," she sighed wearily, rubbing the back of her neck as she came to stand behind his chair. "Last night was —"

The chair swiveled, and pale blue eyes, wide with shock, met Myla's green ones. Gainey's face was flaming and he ran a hand awkwardly over his curly blond hair. "Um… wrong guy, Commander." His gaze darted away.

_**Oh gods.**_ She realized how that must've—

"That's not… you… I should go," she finished lamely, feeling a flush creep across her own cheeks. She considered giving him an explanation, if only to minimize the inevitable scuttlebutt fallout caused by this calamitous mistake, but when she looked at the Cerberus pilot's blue eyes, Chelsea's face flashed in her mind. She turned and walked away swiftly, making for the elevator again.

("I'm telling you, Blasto would kick Batman's ass any day of the week!"

"Not if Batman had an M90 Cain, dumbass.")

_**Back up?**_ She thought when she reached the elevator.

_Chelsea's lips moved weakly, no sound issued from them, but the word was easy to read._

Myla slapped the button for crew quarters — maybe Chakwas could help.

_Please._

Why did this have to happen now? Couldn't she have some mental peace in consideration for the crap she dealt with every day?

She leaned back against the cool metal, squeezing her eyes shut.

_Please._

Myla shook her head. She wouldn't live through that again, not now. She tried to think of something else, of anything else.

Her mind spun frantically, steadying on the comforting timbre of her pilot's voice.

_This is what I want. Don't you?_

_**Yes.**_ She couldn't dance awkwardly around it anymore. She wanted him, maybe even loved him. She had for years. He'd as good as told her he felt the same, hadn't he?

_Please._

Myla concentrated on the flash of dark green eyes, the irritatingly smug smirk, pushing Chelsea's voice away, burying it down again.

_It's you, Shepard._

He'd always been there for her, never doubting her. Kaidan's glare of righteous disgust bubbled up but was quickly replaced with Joker's encouraging grin and her game of steal-the-cap that became something… else aboard the Kodiak.

He'd never asked anything of her either, she thought quickly, shying away from the remembered pressure of his legs around hers, the warmth of his proximity.

She could still recall the heat of Akuze, that hell planet.

_Please._

The elevator halted and opened softly. Shepard hesitated before stepping out. She knew she needed help; she was a basket-case — not exactly the kind of person fit to lead a motley collection of dysfunctional killers into a suicide mission in uncharted space.

Myla rubbed the bridge of her nose wearily. This instability had to end. If she couldn't trust her own sanity she wasn't worthy of command.

Gods, she was tired.

She made her way around the elevator hub, heading for medbay, but stopped at the soft clink of glass from the crew table. She turned to see her pilot slouched in one of the seats, a bottle of something alcoholic in his hand, his hat pulled low over his eyes.

"Jeff?"

He stirred at the sound of her voice, pushing the brim of his cap up with a wide thumb.

"Hey, Commander." One green eye flashed from the shadow, sending her heartbeat ratcheting up a notch.

She glanced around the deserted room before coming to sit across from him. Myla looked at his unsmiling face, then quickly away to the bottle between them.

"Is that, um, is that any good?" She asked half-heartedly. It had occurred to her that he might not be in the best of moods.

"Nah, tastes like shit." He took a swig and favored her with a bitter smile. "I've been thinking."

"That's never a good sign," she teased gently, and he shook his head.

"Seriously. What you said earlier… "

_**About me wanting you to kiss me?**_ Myla bit her lip, hoping and dreading that that was what he meant.

He toyed with the bottle, rolling its bottom in slight arcs. "…about why you should hate me? Do you… do you remember how you died?"

She blinked, surprised. "Yes." She sensed that it would be a bad time to tell him that she still dreamed about it sometimes.

He looked up at her, scowling, "And it doesn't bother you at all? That you died because of me?"

Myla pulled back, genuinely confused. "It wasn't your fault, Joker."

"The hell it wasn't!" He glared at her, daring her to contradict him, "If I was a better pilot—"

"That's stupid," she said firmly, "You're the best pilot. Your flying let most of the crew escape. We were outgunned and surprised. You couldn't have done anything different."

He laughed harshly, "Yeah, well, it wasn't enough. I still managed to kill the galaxy's only hope."

Her lip curled in distaste at the moniker. "I get all the credit but I don't deserve it. You didn't kill me."

He shook his head stubbornly, letting go of the bottle to cross his arms.

"I might as well have put a gun to your head and pulled the trigger."

_Please._

_Chelsea's blue eyes were glassy; her hand fell limply from Shepard's boot._

"Don't say that, don't you fucking say that." _**Don't attack him, he doesn't understand.**_ She tried to control the spike of rage, felt it simmer to a grim ache. Myla grabbed the bottle between them and took a desperate gulp; she told herself the tears were from the burn of the alcohol. Her heart thumped painfully and she took in a shuddering breath. "I don't blame you. I never did, okay?"

Her knuckles were white on the clear glass and she forced herself to relax. "It doesn't matter now. I'm back. I'm alive."

"It does matter!" He leaned forward, punctuating his words with a forefinger on the table, eyes almost pleading in their intensity. "I thought you were dead for over a year — I thought I was responsible for the death of… of my friend and now you're back and you act like it never happened."

Myla looked down at her arm on the table, gaze tracing the spidering of amber scars that fractured her skin. "It was two years ago for you, Jeff, but it only felt like minutes to me. I'm sorry you blamed yourself — I was trying to keep you alive, not to hurt you. Never to hurt you."

His hand covered hers on the bottle, gently coaxing her fingers to release their death-grip. "I know." His fingers laced with hers.

"I've killed friends before." She stared through their entwined hands, unable to process the situation.

"Ashley never—"

"Not Ashley." She met his gaze. "When we… when I was on Akuze, after the maws hit us, we scattered, trying to escape the nest in small groups of two or three. A private in my group, Chelsea Roberts, lagged behind and a maw…" She closed her eyes, hearing the shrill scream and seeing again the crimson stain spreading on the sand. "A maw got her leg."

He was silent.

Myla took a deep breath. "I dragged her away, onto a wide stretch of rock. I tried to tie a tourniquet, but… the wound was too ragged.

"She asked me to… to stop the pain. I didn't have medigel. She asked me to kill her. She was bleeding out and she asked her commanding officer to kill her."

She looked at Joker, feeling her control slip.

"I put a bullet between her eyes, Jeff, I killed a girl I was responsible for. I killed her."

"She asked you to," he said softly, no judgment in his eyes.

"I should have saved her."

"Sometimes you can't save everybody." He blinked and looked down, pulling back from her. Her fingers clenched reflexively, too late to hold him.

They sat in silence, neither certain of a way to break it. After a while, Shepard picked up the bottle and swilled its contents.

"You were right. This does taste like shit."

He shrugged. "It's not actually for drinking—I think it's what Gardner used to cook with."

Myla made a face. "That explains a lot more than it doesn't."

He smiled cautiously and reached across the table, picking up her hand again and tracing the glowing amber lines. "There was something else I needed to talk to you about."

She arched an eyebrow, struggling to hide how much she enjoyed his touch. "Just out of curiosity, Joker, about how drunk are you right now?"

"Slightly very. One away from singing and dancing on the tabletop." He tugged his cap in the nervous manner he had, and Myla knew he was lying. "Before I was an ass about you saving me — in that same conversation we had when I was an ass about you thanking me? — You said…" He looked up, dark green eyes sober and clear. "You said you wanted me to."

"I did, didn't I?" Heartbeat — loud, strong, blood rushing in her ears.

"Do you still… want me to?"

The Collectors were out there. The Reapers were coming. She had a mission in less than seven hours. Kaidan would never forgive either of them. The Alliance wouldn't approve.

She didn't care.

She reached across the table, gently lifted his cap from his head and pulled it on her own.

"I always have. I always will."

His smile was so wide she thought his face would crack in two. "What the hell took you so long?"

"Me? What about _you_, Lieutenant?" She grinned, a delicate joy trembling in her heart. He stood and came to her side of the table, tucking a strand of copper hair behind her ear as he sat beside her. She'd wanted this for years, wanted her snarky, scruffy, periodically arrogant pilot, and now she knew he wanted her, and here they were, and he was— "All that flirting, all those bad jokes? Half the time I thought you were kidding."

"I… screw it." He put a hand at the back of her neck and pulled her into a deep kiss, lips warm and gentle.

Myla's eyes fluttered closed and she reached up blindly, running a hand along his bearded jaw and another through his short hair. It was as soft as she'd imagined and she smiled into the kiss, eyes opening slowly. He drew back with a superior smirk.

"You're probably _too_ _much_ for the average pilot, Commander. Lucky for you, I'm anything but average."

"Only asses quote themselves, flyboy." She grinned and snuggled against him, her eyelids suddenly heavy. His answer was blurred by the buzz of his voice in his chest, but he hugged her gently and the soft orange glow of the lighting made everything warmer.

He tipped her ill-gotten hat back and brushed his lips against hers in another kiss.

Mmm, he tasted like… like a harvest breeze and a summer sunset and evening light on endless wheat fields. Shepard smiled inwardly, pleasantly amused by the strange nostalgia he'd invoked. Comfort food — mashed potatoes, the slight salt of sweat spent in a day's work, the satisfying perfection of a clean headshot… She pulled back from him, yawning widely.

"Wow. That bad, huh?" His eyes flickered — _**emeralds flashing in amber light**_, she thought dimly.

"No," she protested, feeling fatigue weighing at her mind, pulling gauzy layers of cobweb over the inner mechanizations, slipping distantly… "You're better than good, I'm just really —" she yawned again.

"Bored? I knew it." He shifted slightly, letting her get more comfortable, "I'd ask EDI how much you usually sleep… but she'd probably _know_ and that's just too damn creepy."

"Don't want to sleep…" She felt her grip on his collar weaken and her vision shrank to blurry crescents of meaningless colors.

"You don't have to. Just close your eyes." His hand was warm on her arm. "I'll even promise not to draw on your face."

"Jeff…"

She fell asleep, strangely at peace with her world.


	24. Pellmell

It felt like she'd hardly closed her eyes when she was roused by a gentle shake at her shoulder.

"Hey, we should be close to Illium by now." Joker's voice was low and soft and more than a little sleepy. "You should probably eat something."

She yawned, arching her back against him in a lazy stretch and reaching a hand up to scratch her head. She frowned, noticing he'd reclaimed his cap while she slept. "No rush — I'll just snag an energy bar or something." She rubbed at her jaw, surreptitiously checking for marks. Just because he'd said he wouldn't draw on her while she slept didn't mean he'd kept his word. It'd be just like him to — nope, clean. Myla allowed herself a small smile.

"Yeah, well," he gently pushed her off of him and stood, rubbing his arm self-consciously, "I think the rest of the crew is waking up and… " He shrugged, a slight blush tingeing his cheeks. "I dunno if you… "

"We've got nothing to hide. Um," Shepard bit her lip as details from earlier flooded back. "They might already think we're, ah, sleeping together." _**Technically, we just did**_, a part of her thought wickedly.

He gave a short barking laugh of disbelief. "Why the hell would they think that?"

She relayed her brief encounter with Gainey as she got up and began raiding the kitchen. She rummaged in one of the lower cupboards, as much to look for a pan as to avoid looking at him. When she resurfaced, he was leaning against the counter, watching her.

"Hey Commander," he grinned wolfishly, "next time we have sex, could you let me know? 'Cause I'd kinda like to be there."

She was sure her face was beet red and she couldn't think of a retort, so she brandished the pan she'd found menacingly. "You said you were a good cook — can you do me a favor?"

He didn't budge. "I said I was better than Gardner — that doesn't make me even _remotely_ good. You're a big girl — do it yourself. I like my eggs with bacon, toast, and hash browns."

Myla snorted, setting it down and checking the refrigerator. "What? Because I'm a woman, automatically I can cook? There aren't any eggs." He winked when she glared at him. She couldn't hold the expression, though, and turned away, biting down a smile. _**Green, green, green…**_

She grabbed two energy bars from the fridge and tossed him one.

"I've burnt a salad before. True story."

"Huh." He unwrapped the bar and bit off a hunk, chewing without relish.

Shepard peeled off her own wrapper slowly, thinking about the time she'd caught him sleeping, about the signs of wear and tear that had marked him in her absence.

"Why'd you leave the Alliance?" She propped her elbows up on the cool surface of the countertop, regarding him seriously. He'd given her a shockingly concise summary when they'd reunited after Freedom's Progress, but she hadn't wanted to press him at the time — too relieved to see a friendly face. His in particular.

He swallowed thickly, "I told you — they reassigned me, grounded me… I got sick of their bullshit."

"Why ground you? I mean," she grinned playfully at him, "you _are_ the best damn pilot in the galaxy."

"Yeah, waste of valuable resources." He shook his head in mock sadness, then twisted his cap around and looked at her seriously. "They wanted to discredit you. People can handle geth — they can believe it, it's an enemy we know we can beat. But Reapers?" He smiled bitterly and shook his head again.

"I wouldn't lie for them — I saw Sovereign, I know what we're up against and to treat all that like an… like an inconvenience will get us all killed." He rolled his eyes, "I may have also called a few admirals ignorant, impotent bastards who had their heads stuffed so far up their own asses that the brown-nosers couldn't… well, you get the idea."

Myla's eyes widened. "Why the hell would you do that?"

He looked away. "They called you crazy. Said it was a mistake to let you be our first Spectre."

She saw a flicker of anger cross his face and knew he wasn't telling her everything. She decided she didn't want to know. It was enough of a disappointment to think they'd dismissed her as summarily as the Council had, that they'd tried to force her loyal pilot to hide the truth by taking his wings away. She clenched her fist around the tasteless energy bar, feeling the hard contours warp under her sudden fury.

"So what are we going to do?" he asked, features inscrutable, green eyes dark.

"About?" She looked down at the smooth countertop, suddenly mesmerized by the sheen of the fluorescent light on its scuffed metal surface. _**The Collectors, the Reapers… what are our stupid little human problems compared to Armageddon?**_

Joker lowered his voice. "When this Collector business is over, what are we gonna do? Cerberus… they brought you back an' all, but I got a bad feeling about the Illusive Man. The Alliance… they're dysfunctional and probably pretty pissed."

Shepard hesitated, cutting off the automatic response before it left her mouth. Why should they go back? The Alliance had burned Joker, practically disavowed all involvement with Shepard, but they'd been her world for so long, and Cerberus was… she shuddered.

"Hey!" Gardner shuffled into the wide room, glaring at the energy bars the two held. "No fair getting a head start on the good stuff!"

Myla glanced down at the unappealing excuse for food in her hand, raising an eyebrow doubtfully. Joker stuffed the rest of his bar into his mouth and pushed off the counter, leaning slightly away from her, the back of his neck flushed red. Gardner continued, oblivious to her pilot's sudden shyness.

"I was gonna make some haggis, too," he grumbled, shooing Shepard out from his normal post behind the counter. "Our last food shipment had a few sheep carcasses an' I think they're starting to turn."

Joker blanched and Myla gulped, knowing she might not be able to handle the requirements of her position in this case, knowing that she would surely suffer — "I… I promise I'll swing by after the mission, Cooky."

His craggy face lit up. "Thanks, Commander! You won't be disappointed. I've been looking up recipes on the extranet an' I think I've got a winner."

Joker limped away before he could be guilted into what promised to be gastronomical torture and Myla followed, nodding politely to Gardner as she left. He saluted her with a ladle.

Jeff was waiting for her by the elevator, a pained smile on his face. He rubbed her shoulder briefly, almost but not quite pulling her close. "I'll catch you when you get back. I'm gonna get some shut-eye."

"Didn't you sleep a little earlier?" Shepard grinned at him, catching his hands.

"No." He gently broke her grip and cocked his head. A teasing smirk wavered on his lips, but his eyes were sad. "Someone heavy was crushing my shoulder. I'll… see you later, okay?"

"Yeah, of course," she nodded, trying to hide her confusion. "If you… if you're not comfortable with…this..." he frowned and she continued, refusing to acknowledge the building ache in her heart. "…that's completely understandable." _**I knew it, now I've lost him—**_

He glanced down the sides of the hall quickly, then suddenly pushed her against the elevator wall and kissed her hard. She responded instinctively, pulling him closer. That sick giddy feeling overwhelmed her and hot adrenaline surged through her veins. _**Oh, yes, please…**_

He pulled away, chest heaving, eyes glinting. He licked his lips and stepped back. "I _want_ this, okay? Don't get me wrong, I just… I just need to think for a bit."

Myla nodded breathlessly, heart still thundering. He smirked and saluted her crisply, then walked away towards crew quarters. Shepard grinned, inordinately happy, and she punched the elevator button for her cabin. She'd get suited up, get her squad in gear, and hopefully have Liara's problem squared away before lunch. _**And after that… **_she shook her head briskly, forcing herself into business mode. She couldn't shake the wide smile, though, and she whistled as she strapped on her armor.

….

Myla ducked the police tape, feeling a swell of fury like a mounting crescendo burn at her insides. Someone had tried to kill her friend. She eyed the blue-armored asari with distrust. Another Spectre. _**How very convenient**_.

"Oh, Keelah," breathed Tali. Garrus cursed softly as he looked around the apartment. Myla shook her head imperceptibly, frustrated with her naïve squad selection. She'd asked them to come along because they'd known Liara, become friends with her. Shepard would never have made that call if she knew they'd be going directly into combat. Not that Garrus and Tali weren't capable—they'd more than proven themselves two years ago against geth, pirates, and hordes of husks—she just worked better with the convict and the mercenary at her side. But she'd assumed it would be a retrieval job. Simple.

It _should've_ been a simple job: hand Liara the data then take her up to the Normandy to chase the Shadow Broker down. But _no_, T'soni had to delay, had to be secretive, and now she'd been attacked in her own home and gone missing.

Myla glanced at the window, gaze lingering on the pale cracks that spiderwebbed across the giant pane, sharp lines, cold and jagged. She took a deep breath and swallowed. _**Please be okay, Liara. Wherever you are.**_

…..

Tela Vasir sat like a predator. Her casual posture managed to convey a fluid and quietly menacing strength. Hardly surprising — she was a warrior after all — but Myla had an uneasy feeling in her gut. The asari's eyes were… off. Hard, calculating, with poorly restrained arrogance — Shepard hadn't met many Spectres. Maybe these were common characteristics?

Myla watched Vasir's face. Patches of alternating light and shadow flashed in the car, illuminating then hiding the numerous purple tattoos, and the scream of city night-traffic was muffled by the thick tinted windows. Lights zoomed by, graceful skyscrapers strained upward to touch the soft cerulean dusk. Illium was a place of undeniable beauty… and danger.

_**Please let her be okay.**_

"How close are we to the Trade Center?" asked Myla, turning her gaze ahead to the view afforded by the wide windshield.

"Just around this block." Vasir nodded forward, guiding the skycar into an exit lane. Her dark amethyst eyes never wavered from the stream of traffic.

"Good," muttered Shepard, shifting restlessly in her seat. She adjusted her visor, realizing she hadn't gotten any input from Joker since the start of the mission. _**He's probably still sleeping. **_Garrus and Tali were quiet in the back — she heard the soft click of metal, the definite rasp of claw on plasteel. They were checking their weapons. _**Smart. Hopefully unnecessary**_.

Vasir glanced sidelong at the other Spectre, a butter-yellow bar of light sliding across her eyes. "You worried about T'soni?"

"Liara can handle herself," Shepard said carefully, "I just don't like this — the running and the secrecy. She should've come straight to the Normandy."

"If your friend pissed off the Shadow Broker, her only hope is to stay low." Vasir banked the skycar and the Dracon Trade Center loomed into view. She brought them down.

_**He's got endless resources, spies hidden everywhere — there isn't a place in the galaxy that would be safe for long.**_

Myla frowned slightly at the asari and opened her mouth to question her, but as the doors hissed open, an explosion rent the air and a fireball of white and gold reared starkly against the sky.

"Shit!" She brought an arm up protectively in front of her eyes, saw Vasir draw up beside her from the periphery of her vision. Rubble fell like rain, the sharp protest of shattering glass forming a counterpoint to the low rumble of consuming flame.

It had to be the Shadow Broker.

_**Liara!**_

Shepard ran out of the skycar, her armored boots cracking against what had once been pristine marble floor. Decorative plants were overturned or had caught aflame by the red embers that drifted from the ruin of the Trade Center's third floor. _**Damn he was fast.**_

She swallowed her fear and made for the entrance, but stopped at the sight of injured civilians. She looked up at the building — an entire wing was destroyed or at least on fire.

_**Liara**_ — she could be hurt — dying or dead already. Myla pushed those thoughts from her mind, kneeling beside a badly-burned man lying flat on his back. She barely glanced at the blackened sheen of his skin, closed her nostrils to the stench, and pulled a medigel canister from her belt.

"I—I don't know what happened!" He cried, teeth white against the charred flesh of his face. Tears glistened, his breath hitched as he hyperventilated. "We were just—oh God, why?"

"Shh," Shepard applied the medigel, doing her best to calm him, signaling her team to help the other civilians. She stopped herself from touching his shoulder, gauntlets brushing the burnt cloth as she drew back. It disintegrated, revealing a patch of angry red flesh. The skin was burned stood awkwardly.

"Hold still, the medics will be here soon," she said, drawing on her training to keep a confident expression. She moved on to the next citizen — a woman whose face seemed to have melted — and Vasir was suddenly beside her, twilight and lithe in the shuddering firelight.

"Whoever did this is probably still here. It looks like they took out the Baria Frontiers office, along with half the damn building — I wouldn't put too much on the odds of T'soni's contact surviving." The asari looked at the crowd of moaning civilians and her jaw tightened, her eyes going hard with fury. "I'll take the skycar and work from the top down — you take the lower levels and work up. With any luck, we'll catch those bastards in the middle and find your friend."

Shepard nodded tersely and Tela sprinted away. Myla finished tending to the injured woman and glanced around. The other civilians seemed to be in stable condition. _**As long as there's no internal bleeding.**_ Sirens wailed in the distance and she sighed with relief.

"Okay guys, the medics are coming — stay close and stay down, you'll be okay." She addressed the civilians, keeping her voice clear and steady. They looked blankly back at her, eyes wide and terrified, dark pools in faces pale beneath the grime.

She nodded to her squad, far from assured. "Let's go."

They charged into the building.

…..

"Dammit!"

The salarian was slumped against the wall, unquestionably dead. Shepard ignored the corpse of the merc Vasir had shot, rushing over to the man she didn't need to be told was Liara's contact, Sekat.

"If I'd only been faster… I could've saved him." Vasir's voice was level, almost bored. _**Listen to your instincts. **_Shepard was painfully conscious of her less than advantageous position — kneeling over the salarian's body, her exposed back to the other Spectre.

"Looks like another dead end," Myla said evenly, one hand creeping toward the heavy pistol at her hip. She heard the lazy steps of the asari as she sauntered away from the corpses.

"Speaking of which… did you find your friend's body?" Gloating.

Shepard bit her cheek to stifle the scream of anger and hate and her fingers tore the pistol from its holster. She pivoted on her knee, whirling faster than she could think, resolved to plug the bitch full of lead, but stopped when a slim figure in a pale coat of armor approached the flaming ruin of the far corridor.

"You mean this body?" Liara's voice was deadly, eyes flat and shining above her upheld pistol, face slick from the rain that fell in from the gaping holes in the roof.

_**Thank the gods you're okay.**_ Shepard grinned and stood, training her own weapon on the asari Spectre. She heard the whine of Garrus and Tali's weapons expanding from their holstered states and a cold satisfaction gripped her heart. _**Like the odds now, traitor?**_

"Shepard, this is the woman who tried to kill me." Liara walked to Myla's side, her gaze never wavering from Tela Vasir.

_**Don't need to tell me twice.**_

The purple-tattooed asari sneered, but she backed up defensively. "You've had a rough day, little girl, so I'll let that slide. Why don't you put that gun down?"

"I saw you." T'soni's menacing calm was eerie, but Myla didn't blame her. "I doubled back after I left. I watched you break into my apartment."

"She didn't know where you went — the message was hidden. She needed me," Shepard spat. _**Those people are dead because I **_— Liara's round face was unmoved—If anything, she seemed coolly detached.

"Once she had my location, she signaled the Shadow Broker's forces. They bombed the building to take me out."

_**If I hadn't…**_

The blue-armored assassin grinned mirthlessly, turning her amethyst eyes on Shepard. "I couldn't have done it without you — you led me right to her. Thanks for the help."

_**She's right. I keep making mistakes, slipping up, ignoring my instincts.**_

Liara's eyes narrowed calculatingly, "She found Sekat, took his data, and killed him. I'm guessing she's still got the disk on her."

"Very _good,_ little girl!" Vasir simpered, holding one fist up.

Myla focused on it; was she holding—?

"Not that you'll ever see what's on it…"

Too late, Shepard realized it was a diversion — a distraction from the hand she'd tucked behind her back. Biotic blue gilded Vasir's armored form, a static corona surrounding her as she dropped into a fighting stance. "You pure-blood bitch!" The window behind her exploded, millions of shards of glass screaming towards Liara, Shepard, Tali and Garrus. Indefensible, beautiful, no time to move, no cover to be found.

_**Shit, Joker, I—**_

Liara fell to her knees, throwing a hand up and putting a biotic bubble shield around them. The glass slammed against the barrier, crushing itself to a snowy powder that fell harmlessly to the floor. Evidently, T'soni's time as an information broker hadn't corroded her combat skills. Shepard saw the look on Vasir's face and charged through the shield and after her as soon as she bolted.

_**The window!**_ Myla launched herself at the traitor asari and they crashed through, scrabbling for a hold in midair. Vasir's breath was hot in her ear, her arms were reinforced with a biotic strength that outmatched Cerberus upgrades. Shepard lost her grip.

"Yah!" Vasir snarled in triumph and slammed her boot into Myla's stomach, accelerating her fall and knocking the wind out of her.

Shepard dropped heavily onto the marble floor, her shoulder blades taking the brunt of the impact. She gasped soundlessly, trying desperately to _breathe — __**Breathe, dammit!**_ An iron vise around her lungs, a cold fist around her neck. Vasir was closeby — Shepard doubted the asari would wait for her to recover. _**Breathe or you're going to die.**_

She'd been trained — any hand-to-hand combat course taught you how to control yourself, how to take a hit, how to fall — but she hadn't had time to twist, to prepare for the landing, and she hadn't had the wind knocked out of her since N7 training. She tried to get a grip on her heavy pistol, but black spots danced in front of her eyes and the vacuum in her lungs forced her to shudder.

_**No. **_Dimly, she saw Vasir float to the floor, smirking. _**I don't want to die. **_She saw blue boots approaching, a fist curling, wisps of biotic power gathering — _**Not like this.**_

As a soldier, she held no illusions of the probability of living to a ripe old age—she knew she was likely to die on some godforsaken rock or in a sunburst of flame and napalm—but she had always hoped to go out fighting, like Ash, or as a sacrifice for another. _**You already did.**_ Maybe she'd already gotten her hero's death and fate had decided she'd die on her knees, helpless, as a punishment for Cerberus defiance.

A soft cry from above stopped Visar's advance. _**Liara…**_

Her friend floated majestically from the broken balcony above, biotic flames radiating from her form and a look of cold fury darkening her round face.

Tela Vasir sprinted away as Liara touched down. Myla coughed, pulling herself up onto hands and knees, expecting Liara's gentle reassurance, but the asari didn't even glance at her as she raced after Vasir. _**Right. Threat first.**_

Air! Shepard gulped it in, blessed air that smelled like smoke and burnt plastic. She stood on knees that shook, heard her squadmates run up behind her. Garrus touched her elbow mutely, concern in his eyes.

"Shepard, are you okay?" Tali's breath was shallow.

Movement at the far end of the room caught her eye, and Shepard nodded briskly. "I'm fine, thanks. Company's here." She checked her pistol and sighted a merc. _**Hold on, Liara.**_

….

Liara's contact was dead. Vasir was a traitor. _**The Shadow Broker has agents within the Spectres.**_ Shepard grimaced and twisted the steering wheel viciously to the right as Vasir's vehicle released another proximity charge. Beside her, Liara gripped the aircar's dash with fearful intensity, sheer terror battling a hard rage in her crystal blue eyes.

"This reminds me of all that horrible Mako," she murmured, a tremor of terror sharpening her usually soft and melodic voice. Garrus laughed from the backseat and Myla grinned as unbidden memories swelled — the smell of burned rubber, counting each additional scratch, dent, and scorch mark along the indestructible rover's hull, Chakwas protesting her squadmates' extensive bruising… the good old days.

"Yeah," she couldn't hide the wistful tone in her voice, "It kinda does."

"You're not seriously — _oomph_!" Liara was thrown against the side as Shepard forced the civilian vehicle into a sharp turn.

"_That's what seatbelts are for, T'soni — safety before vengeance!" _Joker's voice crackled in Shepard's earpiece and her heartbeat spiked. _**He's back.**_ She kept her attention focused on the road (or, more appropriately, the lack of one). It wasn't that Vasir's skycar was hard to track — the damn thing must've ruptured a fuel line or something because it left a clear trail of pale yellow fuel that had diffused into her slipstream, making her easy to spot and follow—but she was trying to lose them in oncoming traffic.

"Joker!" A surprised smile quirked Liara's lips, "I didn't know you were with Shepard." Her slim blue hands engaged her seat harness hurriedly.

"I wouldn't fly with anyone else." Myla smiled happily, sending the taxi into a steep dive to avoid a large transport cruiser. Its driver, a portly turian with pale yellow facepaint, made a distinctly rude gesture as she passed.

"No one else would fly with you!" Garrus grunted from the backseat, rubbing his headfringe painfully.

"_Sad but true. The galaxy is full of crazies but only a select few of us are suicidal."_

Liara gasped and sputtered, pointing frantically out the windshield, "Go, go, go!"

"I got it." Shepard scowled, wrenching the nose of the vehicle up as a huge tanker, the words DANGER: HIGHLY FLAMMABLE emblazoned on its side, listed sideways into their flight path.

"Left! Go left!"

"I _got _it!"

"_Don't backseat pilots piss you the hell off?"_ She could practically see his grin.

Garrus laughed, "Especially when they don't know what they're talking about?"

"_Well, everyone and their invalid auntie knows how to fly a freakin' _taxi_ — some just do a very bad job of it. Like, really bad. Like, worse than a blind vorcha with no arms bad."_

"Tell me about it," Garrus's two-toned voice was positively dripping with mock-suffering.

"No conspiracy among minions," Myla pulled the aircab into a steep climb, slipping above the stream of civilian traffic. "Mutiny will be met with double rations of Gardner's cooking."

"I don't have to suffer," Garrus pointed out smugly, "I get dextro-friendly protein paste."

"_Shit, he's making moldy haggis today, too."_ Joker's mutter was despairing.

"Please, be quiet!" Liara cried as the aircab swerved sickeningly, "Shepard's driving is bad enough when she isn't distracted by your infernal banter!"

Joker laughed and Myla decided to ignore their hurtful comments.

She was gaining on Vasir.

"Almost…" She nudged the taxi closer, urging another kick of speed from the disappointingly weaponless thing. There was a hideous squeal of scraping metal as Vasir swung her car into Shepard's "borrowed" taxi.

Myla gritted her teeth and pushed back, then felt another jarring impact. Vasir's car was close enough to see into the cockpit — her lip was curled in a hateful sneer.

They were locked and destabilized — spinning out of control into a lane of oncoming traffic. Horns blared as civilians swerved from their orderly lines to avoid them. Shepard grimaced._** It's only a matter of time.**_

Vasir was trying to pull them into the path on an oncoming speeder, trying to brush them off. Two could play that game.

Myla floored the accelerator, hurtling them toward the stubborn civilian. _**If you're wrong…**_

"Shepard, what-?" Liara shrieked, eyes wide.

"I know —" Shepard hit the brakes hard and there was a discordant screech. Vasir's car bucked forward. "— what I'm doing." She turned the taxi as far as she could to the left, pulling free of Vasir's vehicle with another horrendous cacophony of rending metal.

Vasir had lost control. Shepard's stomach clenched in sudden fear for the civilian. _**What if I judged it wrong? What if she — **_but no, the Spectre managed to veer out of the speeder's path. One of the skycar's propulsion turbines was busted — spitting sparks, wiring spilling from its plating like intestines from the ruptured belly of some great beast — and she listed heavily, clipping another aircar. The civilian's vehicle bobbed away and quickly restabilized. But Vasir's—

"She's going down!" There was a predator's excitement in Garrus's voice and Myla felt the adrenaline of the hunter quicken her heartbeat. She watched the other ship tumble down, down, and crash on an upper deck of a swanky-looking building. A hotel? She squinted at the sign.

"Azure? Like the color?"

Joker choked and Liara shot her a glance that suggested she thought Shepard was a trifle dense.

"Sure… like the color."

"_Uh-huh. Because, ya know, asari are blue and, ah, azure is a lovely shade of blue."_

Garrus snorted and Shepard felt herself blush. She hated feeling naïve; evidently "azure" had some dirty connotation on Illium. _**Focus.**_

Below, Vasir tumbled from the wreckage of her skycar and lay there for a moment, obviously in pain.

"We can't let her get away." Myla sent the taxi into a perhaps unnecessarily steep descent as she searched for a suitable landing. She allowed herself an evil smile as her companions yelled in dismay. Oh, this thing did _so_ remind her of the Mako.

…..

Her shoulder hurt like hell — one of those damn salarian technicians had been lucky enough to wing her with an incendiary projectile before she'd sent a bullet between his eyes — but Myla filed away the pain for later. Vasir must've been calling in reinforcements because Shepard had had to fight in virtually every wide open space on this level of the hotel.

That wasn't important now, though—Vasir had hurt herself in the crash. Badly. The intermittent drips of indigo blood were getting more frequent and the footsteps dragging through them were increasingly smaller in stride. She was getting tired.

"C'mon!" she shouted over her shoulder at her trailing team.

They rounded a balcony corner and Shepard cursed in dismayed horror. Vasir was just ahead, limping laboriously, but she was in the midst of a crowd of civilians — laughing, chatting, oblivious to the deadly danger they were in. _**Who the hell puts a restaurant on the roof of a hotel?**_

Vasir elbowed some slow-moving men from her path, her pained shuffle gaining a menacing purpose.

Liara pushed in front of Shepard, bringing her weapon up. "Vasir! It's over."

The other asari paused, her head turned. She was drawing curious glances now, confusion rising in hurried whispers, the atmosphere quickly sickening with prey-fear. Myla drew her weapon.

Tela Vasir lurched back towards them, using her biotics to snag a human waitress, pulling her close as a shield. Shepard's stomach dropped, and the other civilians screamed and scrambled for safety. Vasir pressed the muzzle of her pistol against the hostage's neck, into the soft palate beneath her jaw. Hard determination grew in her amethyst eyes. "What's your name?"

The hostage was in shock. Her lips trembled slightly as she spoke. "M-Mariana."

Vasir's voice was soft, mockingly comforting. "Mariana, you want to live, don't you? Tell those people that you want to live."

"Please." Mariana was trying to stay still — someone had obviously told her what to do in a hostage situation: hysterics would only piss off the captor and hinder the negotiator — but the terror in her eyes was undeniable.

_Please._ Chelsea Roberts had begged for a swift death — this woman pled for her life. Myla wouldn't let her die.

"We'll get you out of here safely, Mariana," she promised, voice steady, keeping her eyes locked on Vasir.

The asari smiled briefly, the expression not reaching her eyes. "Well, that's good to hear." Her tone changed, soft, deadly, cruel. "All you had to do was walk away. Now it gets ugly." She shoved her weapon's muzzle against Mariana's temple and Shepard thought for sure the woman would crack. _**Stay calm.**_

The waitress closed her eyes, silver tears slipping down her cheeks. "Please. I have a son."

"A son?" Vasir brought her lips close to the woman's ear, as if to whisper in confidence, but every word carried clearly to Shepard. "I hope he gets to see you again. I've heard losing a parent is just horrific for children. Scars them for life."

Shepard clenched her free fist, biting her tongue to keep from yelling. At her side, Liara leaned forward, a quiet steel radiating coldly from her. "I'm going to end you, Vasir."

Shepard shivered, resisting the urge to turn to her friend. That wasn't a promise — it was a fact. She could hear the truth as readily as she saw it in Vasir's shocked expression. _**Don't make her unstable.**_

"It's okay, Liara. We'll handle it. The usual way."

"You want Mariana's little boy to grow up without a mommy, Shepard?" Vasir's tone changed from mocking to angry. "Thermal clips on the ground. Now. Power cells too."

_**There's no way she'll back out without finishing her mission. Neither will I.**_ Myla laughed, signaling Liara surreptitiously.

"Is that it?" She forced a contemptuous confidence she did not feel into her tone.

Vasir was shaken by Shepard's reaction. She lowered her pistol uncertainly, a glimmer of disgust in her eyes. "What?"

"Vasir, I sacrificed hundreds of human lives to save the Destiny Ascension. I unleashed the Rachni on the galaxy. So for your sake, I hope your escape plan doesn't hinge on me hesitating to shoot a damn hostage."

Doubt struggled in the asari's face, then was replaced by a confident resolve, but it was too late — a biotic bloom enveloped a table behind the hostage and her captor. _**Thank you.**_

"You're bluffing," Vasir sneered flatly, shifting her grip on Mariana, "I—"

"Now, Liara!" cried Shepard, but she didn't have too — T'soni had already sent the table crashing into the couple, sending Vasir flying away into a tasteful water feature and, more importantly, away from the waitress.

"Are you okay?" Myla jogged to the side of the fallen woman, gaze trained warily on the water where Vasir had landed.

There was a feral scream of rage and the water feature exploded upward. Vasir shot forth, cloaked in the blue nebula of biotic energy, and bared her teeth at Shepard.

_**Here we go again.**_

Shepard sent her squad to cover, firing to track the blur of blue as the asari Specter moved sporadically, biotically charging in random patterns. Probably a flash tactic—get your enemies confused, disoriented, then come in and—with a snarl, Vasir appeared directly in front of Shepard, bringing her weapon to bear. Myla reacted instinctively—pistol-whipping her across the face. Vasir spun away, appearing on the private balcony of what must've been the hotel's premium suite.

She raised a hand to her lips, her eyes burning with hatred.

Shepard cursed. "She's calling more lackeys."

Garrus mutely slapped another heat sink into his gently smoking assault rifle.

After what felt like hours of cat and mouse fighting with Vasir, broken only by intermittent waves of the Shadow Broker's pawns or hired guns, the asari Spectre's shields gave out. Vasir slumped to her knees, blood dribbling in sickeningly thick streams from her middle.

"Damn it! Damn it," she spat, resignation seeping into her broken tone. She struggled to the balcony wall, movements increasingly weak.

Shepard felt a stab of pity in spite of everything she knew. Vasir had been proud, strong, and undeniably skilled. To see her like this… to have done this to her… _**She was corrupted.**_

"_You did what you had to."_ Joker's voice was soft and Myla knew without checking that he was using a private channel. _"She would have killed you without a second thought."_

"That doesn't make it okay," Myla murmured, holstering her weapon and averting her eyes from the fallen Spectre.

Liara strode to Vasir and casually grabbed a glowing orb from the other woman's belt, turning away without a backwards glance. _**Callous. Even if — **_T'soni waved her omnitool over her prize, her face lighting up with a hard hunger at the results.

"Sekat's personal datapad. This has what we need to find the Shadow Broker." She shut down her omnitool and began to walk away purposefully.

Myla started to follow, but a hacking cough stopped them.

"You're dead." Vasir had put her back against the wall, dark purple blood smeared out from behind her as she slid down. She was fading fast but the hate in her voice was strong. "The Shadow Broker has been in power for decades. He's stronger than anything you've ever faced."

Myla turned, guilt and frustration solidifying into anger. Vasir shouldn't have fallen — she was a Spectre — like Shepard, like Nihlus… like Saren. Was it the fate of all Spectres to die or become the thing they fought against? Disgust filled her.

"Is that why you sold out the Council to work for him? Credits and power are a hell of a lot more fulfilling than honor, right?"

Vasir's righteous scowl told her she'd hit a nerve. "Go to hell! I'm no traitor — he's given me a lot of intel over the years — good intel that saved a lot of lives and kept the Citadel safe! So, yeah, I think I owe him a life or two — even and especially mine. It's a price I _have_ to pay."

It was unbearable to hear the conviction and assurance in that voice — wretched but proud. Vasir was dying but she'd get in her last strikes. Myla shook her head. "That explosion? Sloppy. Many civilians died — civilians you swore to protect. I don't think they felt the same about your price."

Vasir's ire vanished and was replaced by a superior calm. "You have no right to preach to me. You abandoned the galaxy — the Council and all the civilians you claim to love so much, played dead for two years and came back working for terrorists. You have any idea what Cerberus has done?"

_Kahoku's body, miners twisted into lurching husks, mindless rachni attacking settlements, the Thorian quivering wetly in the dark subterranean tunnels, thresher maws arcing high against the sun, the blood of her squad staining coarse sands_—

"I know." Myla felt her hands shake, felt her throat tighten on words she had to share with this stranger who'd tried to kill her. "I know what they've done better than most and I have to work apart from that because they gave me my life back. Because, for now, we're on the same side. Because I need them. We need them. Vasir, we need anyone and everyone because there is a bigger threat — the Reapers are coming and we'll all die unless we—"

"Spare me your sermon," Vasir spat, no fear in her eyes, "I want to die without the smell of bullshit choking me. You want to judge me? Look in the mirror. Kidnapping kids for biotic death camps? Killing Alliance admirals who ask questions? You're with them. Don't you _dare_ judge me. Don't you… " Her amethyst eyes rolled back and her head lolled to the side and she was just another broken soldier.

Shepard thought she should be angry but she only felt numb.

...

**A/N: Hey guys, sorry about the long wait, [insert general whining about how busy school is]. I hope you liked this one-don't worry, Billy's coming back soon!**

**As always, thank you to my over-taxed and talented beta, ShadesOfMauve.**


	25. Transit Time

Liara stood in one of the ruined hotel rooms, her omnitool glowing as it played back the Shadow Broker's last message to Vasir.

"..casualties not a concern."

Myla walked up behind her old friend, struggling to recognize the old Liara in the cold lines of this new woman. "Vasir's dead," she said flatly.

Liara didn't react but allowed a beat of silence. She turned. "I'm putting the data through to the Normandy's computers. We can be at the Shadow Broker's base in a few hours." She began walking back to the skycar, talking as she strode. "He'll know about Vasir before long. If he decides to kill Feron…" Her voice trailed off.

Myla touched her arm. "We'll get him out alive, Liara. I swear it."

"I know." Liara pulled away from her. "You're here to help." Her tone changed, sad, almost resigned. "Just like always."

"That's not a good thing?" Myla smiled encouragingly, hoping she'd see the light come back into the asari's eyes.

T'soni regarded her seriously. "When we first met on Therum, you saved me from the geth. You fought a krogan battlemaster while I cowered. Now you're doing it again. And I'm still leaning on you for help."

A thousand logical arguments—_**I've been trained, I have experience, I'm used to it—**_weren't right, couldn't be right, so Myla chose the only response that made sense.

"That's what friends do, Liara."

The asari turned and walked away, continuing as if she hadn't heard. "I can get us there, based on Sekat's data. The Normandy's stealth drive will keep them from detecting us. The Shadow Broker's agents are still shooting their way through Illium," she lowered her voice thoughtfully, "With luck, they won't notice we've left until it's too late."

Myla stopped, arching an eyebrow. "That's a little cold. They killed innocent people." _**The old Liara would have cared.**_

Liara turned again, crystal blue eyes flicking away ashamedly, "You know what I mean."

So she knew there was something wrong. Myla pressed forward, almost pleading. "Do I? When I hit the ground back at the trade center, you went after Vasir without a backward look."

Liara shifted uncomfortably, moving to the view from the balcony railing. "A little fall wasn't going to kill you. I had to stay on Vasir. I had to stay rational, make the call." Shepard could hear an edge of desperation in her voice. "Like I did with Sekat."

_**You're trying to convince yourself but it's eating away at you.**_ Shepard joined her, looking out at Illium's skyline, stealing a glance at her friends strained face. "That's Vasir's fault, not yours."

"Sekat had no idea what the stakes were. I put him in harm's way to get the data I needed. And I'd do it again." Liara's tone didn't deviate from her standard soft smokiness, and Myla began to doubt her estimation of her friend's change. Had two years really hardened Liara into this…callous schemer? _**No, not Liara.**_

The asari pushed off from the railing, a businesslike certainty hardening her features and voice. "But from here on out, things will be simple. Get in, get Feron, get out."

They passed the flaming wreckage of Vasir's skycar.

"…And kill anyone who tries to stop us."

Myla felt betrayed—she'd come for her friend but found only her shell.

"That's it?" she asked, incredulity edging her voice. "Liara, what happened to you?"

Liara spun to face her, an untouchable sadness in her blue eyes. "What do you want me to say, Shepard? That I mourned you? That I feel guilty because Feron got captured? I made mistakes. I lost people. I helped get you back and I want to do the same for Feron."

Shepard stepped back, nodding. She could understand that… wanting to atone for failing. She'd respect Liara's drive, but not if the asari was going to get herself killed. "When this is over—"

A spasm of impatience flickered across T'soni's face and she waved an arm sharply. "We'll talk once he's safe. Until then, enjoying the scenery is an insult to the man who saved both of us."

"Okay," Myla smiled gently, gesturing onwards, "Let's go."

….

Liara walked straight to the Galaxy Map when they boarded the Normandy, and, after a regretful glance to the cockpit, Shepard went after her. Hadley whistled softly as Liara stalked past his station and Matthews slapped the back of his head. Myla followed close on her heels, masking her concern and adopting the "calm, cool, and collected" demeanor required of commanding officers before their crew, even and especially in times of uncertainty.

And this was doubtlessly such a time.

Liara's transformation was more severe than Shepard had previously imagined — the once-shy asari scientist, always painfully cautious of the thoughts and feelings of others, had become a calculating and cold machine of revenge concerned only with her objectives and dismissing travesty as but a means to an end.

_**But that's not entirely true,**_ thought Myla, noticing the nervous twitches of Liara's slim fingers as she strode. _**She's hardened, yes, but… defensively.**_

_I made mistakes. I lost people._

_**So did I.**_

Liara rounded the CIC display, practically jogging up the shallow ramp to the galaxy map. Shepard noticed the pleased surprise on Chambers's face as the asari passed her, and the stealthy appreciative double-take, with detached amusement that quickly faded to melancholy. Liara had hardened out of necessity — _**the galaxy is tough and you either bend, break, or adapt.**_

T'soni gripped the railing, staring down intently at the blue-white-cream swirls of the holo. Her small knuckles were white.

"Hey." Myla touched the small of her back, coming to stand close beside her so that their words wouldn't be overheard. "Relax."

"What if I'm too late?" Her voice was barely audible and Myla felt a surge of pity for her friend. "What if the Shadow Broker's already killed Feron? What if —"

"What if's are useless," said Shepard firmly, prying Liara's hands free of the thin but sturdy railing. "There's no changing the past. You deal with what you've been dealt and you do your damnedest because that's all you can do."

T'soni ducked her head, a spasm of grief, frustration, and then serenity played across her smooth brow. "I…" She took a deep breath and summoned up a smile. It was too tired, sad, and much too fragile for Shepard's tastes, but it was a start. "Thank you."

"Would you like a tour of the ship?" Myla steered the asari away from the galaxy map, down the ramp.

"No, thank you, I believe—"

Kelly jumped in front of them, smiling widely. "You must be Dr. T'soni. I'm Kelly Chambers—pleased to meet you!" She stuck out her hand and Liara took it hesitantly.

"Hello, Ms. Chambers. Forgive me, I do not know your appropriate title."

Kelly shook her head once, her short red hair swishing. "Oh no, I'm not military or even an officer for Cerberus! Just call me Kelly."

"Kelly, then." Liara's smile was genuine this time, if a bit shy.

_**Thank you, Kelly,**_ Myla sighed inwardly in relief.

"Kelly is my personal assistant," she said warmly, nodding to her yeoman. Liara listened politely, the tenseness leaving her face. "She helps me stay sane."

"Not a position I'd envy," teased Liara gently, her shoulders easing.

"Oh, no, it's a lot of fun!" Kelly widened her green eyes earnestly. "I even feed her fish occasionally."

T'soni cocked her head, bemused. "…Fish?"

Shepard snorted. "Yeah, the Normandy SR2 came with an aquarium, of all things."

"If you like," Kelly smiled at Liara, "I could take you on a tour of the ship."

The feeble warmth in Liara's face flickered and was replaced with uncertainty. She looked quickly to Shepard—seeking assurance or permission?

"Go ahead," Myla grinned encouragingly, "We've got a couple hours of flight-time. I've got to talk to a few people so you might as well try to relax. Try and get something to eat while you're at it."

"Alright, Shepard, thank you." Liara allowed herself to be led away by a beaming Chambers, her apprehensive expression softening under the redheaded yeoman's barrage of eager charm.

Shepard watched the two disappear into the elevator, guessed that Kelly was taking the asari to see Chakwas first. _**Smart move,**_ she thought. _**Give her something familiar to work up from. Make her more comfortable.**_

_**Was that what they'd planned to do for me?**_ The notion struck her unbidden. The attack on the facility had been unexpected—she wasn't supposed to wake up yet. And then Freedom's Progress…

After seeing Tali, Myla had been _this _close to leaving Cerberus and striking out on her own, the Illusive Man's credits be damned, but then… _**Familiar faces.**_

She leaned over the railing, staring through the holographic swirls of the galaxy map.

They'd given her Joker, the Normandy, Chakwas — all their chips on the table in a desperate gamble for her loyalty. That wasn't efficient strategy — it was enough, but it was sloppy. Not Cerberus wont.

Shepard clenched a fist and examined the minute tracings of fiery scars that spidered over white knuckles. She hadn't been finished — a creation birthed prematurely to a guardian unprepared.

_**How did they plan to tell me?**_

Miranda was in charge of the… project. She had been (and still was, to a degree) cold, calculating, and flawlessly pragmatic — she would have kept it simple, direct. Maybe even as impersonal as a bedside briefing and an OSD for review. But the Illusive Man was in charge of Miranda, and he loved deception, manipulation, coercion. He read a person carefully and exploited every strength, weakness, preference.

_**Familiar faces…**_

He would have used them — Joker and Chakwas. Have her wake up in a medbay bed — warm bright lights, clean white sheets, the steady bleeping of a heart monitor — and there'd be a familiar face to greet her.

_**Waking up to green eyes…**_

It probably would have been Joker — there was a sort of poetry to it. He'd been the last person she'd seen before her death, it was only fitting he'd be the first she saw in her new life.

_**I'd have liked that. It wouldn't make me love Cerberus, but I'd like that.**_

Shepard sighed, running a hand through her hair, reminding herself sternly of what she'd told Liara about "what-if's". She pushed off the cold railing. Her armor clicked as she walked down the galaxy map ramp — no point in changing into her casuals for a couple hours of downtime.

A sharp hunger pang clenched her stomach and she gritted her teeth, remembering Gardner's haggis threat. _**That's what I get for trying to keep everybody happy.**_ Well, she wouldn't suffer alone. Her feet carried her to the cockpit.

...

_**A**_**/N: Just a quick one. Read and review, please! :) Rest assured, I haven't forgotten about Billy...**


	26. Hunting

The alley was dark and humid. Harsh blue, gold, and red light from the street's various so-called establishments formed a stark contrast to the black shadow of the dark passage, interrupted only by the sinister glimmerings of reflection held by puddles of dubious origin. There was a mound of something foul just there to his right and Billy toed it experimentally. The lump of rags moaned and Billy's lip curled in distaste. He was overwhelmed by a desire to kill the wretched thing, but stayed his knife. He had better prey tonight.

Billy had been drawn here, drawn to this mire of despair, decay, and corruption. Even all those years ago, when he still ran Free, a beautiful Purpose singing in his heart and veins, Omega had the reputation of the most concentrated center of cruelty, of crime. What better place to hone his Skill? Where else could he strike and slip away unnoticed? Where else would the shells of his Worthy join the countless bodies of the nameless lying in obsidian gutters? It was perfect.

Nobody cared on Omega — as long as you avoided the paranoid and volatile asari who crouched in her nightclub like a corpulent spider in the center of its web. The silver threads touched many things, but much was left unclaimed, hidden in a murky fog, up for contention, for conquest. And all the little creatures that crept in the dark fought quietly amongst themselves for the honor of the arachnid's leavings.

Billy did not need or want such mortal estimations of power — no money, no possessions, no fleeting and empty titles of status — but the fluidity of Omega's political and social structure enabled him to be Free, to do his Duty in peace.

The wall was cold and hard against his shoulder blades, and he shifted slightly, pulling his thin black jacket closer around him. He felt the sheath of his concealed knife press at his ribs and smiled beatifically, thinking of the Duty that he would perform this night.

One of the drawbacks of a place such as Omega was that there were few worthy to be found. When the Call became too compelling, he'd often been forced to Release one of the many drunks that littered the streets, sprawled insensibly in a stupor from which few would ever wake. But not tonight.

He was not fond of bars, clubs, and the other such focal points of the basest vices of so-called sentient life. He did not like the lights of Afterlife, the rich red that saturated and overpowered all other colors, stealing the white from eyes turned black and flat, like a world awash in the Fluid of Life, yet petty and perverse. Billy shivered with guilty rage. Those Impure succubae, cavorting in their obscene undulations and — and — he unsheathed his knife and pressed the cool flat of the blade against his cheek.

Calm.

He slowed his breathing, forcing Unworthy images of lithe dances from his mind. _**Shepard, I'm doing this for you.**_ The thought of his Phoenix gave him steely strength and he straightened.

Tonight he would kill one who was Worthy.

Afterlife was the social hub of Omega — a pit of avarice, yes, but the misguided were as easily ensnared as the contemptible. It was, Billy had found, a treacherous gathering place for predator and prey alike. More than once, he'd had to draw his blade in self-defense, or to switch targets, and that batarian in the lower level definitely suspected Billy of… clandestine activity, but said nothing. His four beetle-dark eyes would glitter with hate, but Billy only Released the humans that he hated so he said nothing.

Billy turned the dagger ever so slowly against his cheek, closing his eyes at the cold bite, the corners of his mouth curling up.

He had found a perfect subject. She… this was borderline blasphemy, but she even reminded him of the holos he'd seen of his Phoenix. Except… soft. He'd seen her on the Afterlife's main dance floor, laughing to the friends she'd come with. Her hair was smooth, cut just above her shoulders, and red even outside of the club's scarlet light. And when she moved it fell just so over her neck… Billy thought that if Shepard ever were stripped of her power as a warrior, she might… The knife bit too deeply and he gasped at the sudden acute pain.

He pulled it away, checking his cheek with one hand. His fingers came away bloody.

Quickly, he brought them up to his mouth, sucking at the sick salt-sweetness, shocked at his mistake. He'd never loosed his own blood before, never felt the cold slide of the cut through the handle and the blade simultaneously.

Billy wiped his knife on his jacket and sheathed it. The woman would have to wait. Head wounds bled heavily and vorcha could smell the Fluid of Life from incredible distances. He needed medigel and he knew where to get it.

….

Billy had heard rumors of a clinic in the wards of Lower Omega. A clinic that provided free services and didn't ask questions. Supposedly, the doctor had cured a deadly plague some months ago.

Billy snuck through cramped alleyways — the cold grime of disuse was distinct from the malevolent filth of activity in its lack of sheen, in the subtle absence of lurking figures flirting on the vague reaches of his peripheral vision. He tore the sleeve of his jacket and pressed it to the wound. Pressure, pressure was key in stopping the bleeding. He felt the cloth grow sodden but could not see the extent of the damage, could not tell exactly how much blood he had lost.

He'd been lucky — no run-ins with the vorcha yet, although he'd heard their shrieking calls echo from nearby passages, and more than once the pattering scrape of their claws on the plasteel floor.

The Wards could be a convoluted maze to one unfamiliar with its layout, but Billy had been on Omega for weeks, had learned many of its secrets, and was able to navigate its twists and turns with ease, although the dull weight of the make-shift compress filled him with anxiety.

Scarlet neon glared softly, flushing the dirty walls an unstable rusty amber.

_**There it is.**_

Billy quickened his pace, brushing past an abandoned receptionist desk, past empty chairs and inactive terminals. He stopped, despair eroding his spirit like a cold acid. There was nobody at the clinic. Nobody… nobody—

There was a scuff from deeper within the clinic, a soft rustle.

_**Someone.**_

Billy's breath caught in his throat and he drew his knife. Carefully, carefully… He put his back against the long smooth wall, creeping slowly, one foot at a time — _**heels down, then toes**_… Silent.

He followed the curve of the wall, down a passage, and stopped outside the opening of a room. Billy strained his senses, striving to get the slightest clue of the being within. The clinic had seemed abandoned—it was likely a scavenger. He considered leaving, but the cold dampness of the cloth against his wound made that a fleeting thought. He needed medigel, and, abandoned or no, any clinic was bound to have a reserve somewhere.

He turned the dagger over in his hand, taking in one shallow breath, readying himself. It would have to be quick and quiet.

Rolling against his shoulder, he peered around the threshold. It was important to know your environment before committing fully.

There was a human man in a scientist uniform, bent over a lab table. The clink of glass—he turned slightly and Billy could see the glint of test tubes in the stranger's hands.

He drew back. Not a scavenger. A medic? Billy stood slowly, noiselessly. He sheathed the knife, pulling his jacket around him tightly.

"H-hello?" He called weakly, pitching his voice so as to sound further away. The noise of movement in the other room stopped. "Is… is anyone there?"

He shuffled into the small room, purposefully limping, keeping the cloth pressed against the wound.

Billy's caution was unnecessary — the man's expression was achingly earnest, drawn with a genuine concern for the stranger. Foolish, but Billy couldn't help but feel envious of the naïveté. In the veritable hellhole of Omega, such simple trust was rare and unerringly short-lived. Billy knew this man was Worthy — more so than the woman at Afterlife — but his Release would wait, had to wait, until Billy was healed.

The man introduced himself as David as he gently peeled Billy's makeshift compress away.

"There's a few fibers caught in the wound," David murmured, his cool fingers firm on Billy's cheekbone. "I'll have to remove them before administrating the medigel." He turned away, hunting for, Billy assumed, surgical equipment.

Billy shifted uncomfortably atop his perch of crates. He did not like to be touched by others.

"Do you have many patients?" Billy forced himself to stop thinking about the knife secured in his pocket. _**Not now.**_

Daniel turned around, the glint of silver in his hand. Tweezers.

"Now that the plague's gone, we only get the usual gang victims and such. Most that make it here aren't severely wounded so we don't need as many medics. Tilt your head." He peered intently at the cut, his shallow breath buffeting delicately on Billy's neck. The tweezers came up and pulled with minute movements, withdrawing invisible threads.

Billy swallowed, eyes focused on the dim overhead light. Too close, too close. The doctor's proximity sent shivers of distaste up his spine and he again thought of his knife.

Daniel continued, oblivious to his patient's discomfort. "Truth is, ever since Mordin left, the clinic has kind of… died." He drew back, nodded, and pulled a packet of medigel from his labcoat. "You can go ahead and use this — I've removed all the fibers from the wound."

Billy took it and applied the clear goo as fast as he could.

"Funny, really," Daniel went to the back of the room, dropping the bloodied tweezers into a sink. "He dedicated his life to this place — years — and that Commander Shepard took less than three hours to convince him to leave it."

Billy's fingers clenched on the packet and medigel spurted, oozing over his hand. He barely felt it. "Shepard — Shepard was here?"

Daniel looked over his shoulder, surprised at the sudden intensity of the other man's voice. "Yeah. She helped spread the cure. It was all over the news."

"I hadn't seen." Shepard had been here. His Phoenix had been _here._ She'd been here and taken — recruited? — that Mordin. Billy was struck by the Meeting Memory then. There had been a salarian with her on Purgatory. Mordin? _**She'd been here.**_

"Huh." Daniel went back to the vials he'd been examining when Billy had watched him earlier. "Well, she helped a lot of people — helped me out of a tough spot, as a matter of fact."

"You knew her?" He could not keep the rage and envy from his tones.

The doctor's face registered shock and slight fear. "I — I just met her once."

Billy took out his knife, a snarl pulling the healing cut in his cheek.

Daniel stumbled back, crashing against the lab table, sending his vials crashing down, shattering on the floor. Bright red—he'd cut his palm on a shard of glass.

Billy leapt forward, feeling the glorious surety of Purpose flow through his veins. His fingers tightened on the familiar handle of his knife and he closed the distance between himself and the Worthy. Daniel grabbed Billy's knife-hand, terror giving him a surprising strength. Billy pulled. Again.

It was no use.

Billy growled and head-butted the doctor viciously. Daniel's grip faltered and Billy slammed him again.

The doctor's hand fell and he slumped back, unconscious.

Billy sat back, a slight dampness of perspiration on his brow, his chest heaving lightly from the sudden exertion. This man had met her. This stupid little man had talked to her. Billy laid the edge of his blade against the doctor's neck, but hesitated.

His Phoenix had come for that salarian, Mordin. Mordin had worked at the clinic for years—had known Daniel for years. They were likely close—they probably kept contact.

What if…what if Mordin was still with her? What if Billy could use Daniel?

Billy thought for a good while, then slid his knife, its blade clean, back into its sheath.

...

**A/N: Sorry this took so long but I'm really glad to get back to Billy. Please review!**


	27. Succession

Shepard skidded to a stop before the conspicuously large door. This had to be it. Her heart thumped steadily beneath her scorched and pitted scarlet armor, a faint ache and burn in her muscles the only testament to the furious fighting that had taken place about the Shadow Broker's skeletal vessel.

Liara checked the blackened chamber of her weapon, her crystal eyes hard. She had easily kept up with Shepard and Garrus for the entirety of the frantic mission, unshaken by the seemingly limitless waves of minions and machinations that dogged the team at every turn. Whatever had occupied her in the years of Myla's death, it seemed to have only honed her combat skills. If she had been losing heart, seeing Feron in the torture chamber had redoubled her drive.

"Everyone ready?" Shepard glanced at Vakarian. He'd been injured by an unexpected salarian tech in the most recent skirmish, but he nodded curtly, claws tightening around his shotgun. Pale blue blood dribbled down his forearm.

Myla took a packet of medigel from her belt and glared at him meaningfully. They had no idea what to expect in the room beyond — it'd be stupid not to take advantage of this brief respite.

His mandibles twitched in resigned amusement and he accepted the small pac. "What would I do without you, Mom?"

T'soni rotated her shoulders, letting out a long breath. "Whatever awaits us, we must deal with the Broker quickly. I have little doubt he will try to manipulate or persuade us to his own ends."

Shepard nodded, adjusting a shoulder greave. "Anything we should know?"

Liara's brow furrowed. "The Shadow Broker's power is perpetuated by his anonymity. From conjecture, I would say he is likely to be a long-lived species — perhaps _too _long-lived… much of the information I have accumulated is curious, to say the least. Several factors…" She lapsed into silent thought, then shook her head. "I know nothing for certain, save for the fact that he is highly intelligent and ruthless. Feron said he was large…"

Garrus finished tending to his wounds and fell in beside Shepard. "Let's take this bastard out."

No one mentioned what they were all thinking — the drell was fading. Even now they could be too late.

The imposing door opened without undue effort, and the three sprinted into a low, wide room lit only by the cold blue light of holographic displays. A massive form, cloaked in shadow, was waiting at the center. It leaned forward, its silhouette made monstrous by the black shadow that obscured its features.

_**What the hell **_**is**_** that?**_

Not a krogan, not anything Shepard had ever seen. Twisted horns flared away from what had to be its head, hulking shoulders lent the impression of a force of nature — vast and immovable.

They had their weapons drawn and trained on the monster, but some instinct kept them from shooting. Shepard glanced to Liara. This was her mission — she should make the call.

The asari's face was tight with intensity, but her grip on her weapon was steady.

"Doctor T'soni, I presume." There was a malevolent humor in the grim tones, a voice so low and gravelly that it could have been a landslide. "You're here for the drell." The blocky head inclined slightly, and Myla felt its calculating gaze on her. "Reckless, even for you, Commander."

"That bombing on Illium wasn't exactly subtle." Myla kept the crosshairs centered on its shadowed face.

"Extreme, but necessary." Each word was wrought of a passionless confidence — no regret or shame, just simple statement of absolute truth.

Liara's lip curled in disgust. "No it wasn't! Neither was caging Feron for two years!"

The thing was not alarmed. "Feron betrayed me when he handed you Shepard's body. The drell is simply paying the price for your interference."

"The Collectors work for the Reapers," spat Shepard, "You're aiding and abetting forces that would destroy the galaxy. Can't you see that what you're doing is suicidal?"

"I am a pragmatist, Commander," the Shadow Broker cocked his head, "I have gathered more information on the Old Machines than you could possibly hope to know. There is no victory against them. My best option is to make myself useful to them. My survival requires an alliance with forces you deem destructive."

"We can fight them and we can win — if we united—"

"Foolish," he smoothly interrupted. "You of all people should know that cooperation on such a scale would be impossible. The Council. Your Alliance. Pirates, gangs, species — so many factions, so many divisions that would have to be overcome, so many individual desires, prejudices, and concerns to consolidate."

As he spoke, Shepard's insides seemed to grow leaden. She knew he was right, felt it in her marrow, but she refused to give up. "Be smart. Let Feron walk out with us."

The Shadow Broker's voice went dark and smooth — sinister with promise. "You won't be walking out at all." He turned his attention to Garrus. "It's good you brought Archangel, T'soni. Your friend's bounty is still unclaimed. There was no specification on condition — dead or alive, whatever proves most… convenient."

The turian was unfazed. He slapped a spent heat sink from the chamber of his rifle, the crack resounding defiantly.

"You're not putting a hand on anyone!" Liara's conviction was palpable. Myla felt suddenly small, watching these two clandestine players battle words and secrets. Threats were all well and good, but if they were to fight, surely it shouldn't take so long.

"It's pointless to challenge me, asari. I know your every secret, while you fumble in the dark."

Unexpectedly, Liara's mouth curved into a superior smile. "Is that right? You're a yahg — a pre-spaceflight species quarantined to their homeworld for massacring the Council's first contact teams."

The Broker sat incredibly still — a slight flutter of the spines that Shepard had thought were horns was the only sign of his shock.

"This base is older than your planet's discovery, which probably means you killed the original Shadow Broker sixty years ago, then took over. I'm guessing you were taken from your world by a trophy hunter who wanted a slave… or a pet." She smirked, eyes flinty. "How am I doing?"

The creature was silent, the barest sheen of small, dark eyes glittered in the gloom. Slowly, he drew himself up, up, up to his full height — bigger than a krogan, bigger than an elcor, and built like the Mako.

_**Gods… **_Shepard backed up instinctively, glancing to Liara. The asari's face had paled with a sudden fear, all of the cocky assurance she had displayed in her flaunt of logic had vanished.

The yahg bellowed suddenly, and with a fluid yet savage movement, he crushed the long desk he'd been sitting behind. His thick claws closed about the wreckage, and Myla realized a split second too late what he was about to do.

"Watch out!" She leapt to one side, pulling Liara down with her, falling to the floor without grace. The hulk of metal, plastic, and sparking wiring flew past them, catching Garrus with a nasty crunch. "Garrus!" He made no response.

Shepard stood, glancing warily between her fallen teammate and the colossal yahg, approaching with a deliberate menace. The turian was too far and any medical attention would make him a target. Right. Enemy first.

"Rraaugh!" The previously sophisticated Shadow Broker stepped into the light, revealing a terrible visage — slick skin, the color of clotted blood, stretched taut over a craggy bone structure, interrupted by stark white warpaint and six black eyepits. In the center of his head, a tri-sided mouth gaped, and Shepard saw countless rows of needle-sharp teeth. The blue plates of his battle-armor shifted as he brought a massive SMG to bear on the two smaller fighters.

The appearance of the gun broke the macabre trance, and they rolled aside for cover.

"Shit!" The deceptively thin piping of SMG fire sounded in tandem with the report of the bullets that pounded the other side of Shepard's cover. It seemed like every fight consisted of this ducking and scraping and cowardly peeping from behind safety.

Shepard popped out, emptying a clip into the yahg's shields. Liara snarled, throwing biotic fire.

Hair-thin streaks of white screamed from the muzzle of the Broker's gun, peppering against Shepard's rapidly depleting shields.

Duck.

Reload.

Breathe.

Up and fire again.

_**Rinse and repeat.**_ A manic grin stretched her cheeks as the monster's shields shuddered and died away, the last rounds of her magazine tearing into flesh. Adrenaline coursed like fire in her veins, intoxicating.

The yahg growled and threw his arms out, summoning a crackling nebulae of energy that coated his form. Another goddamn shield. Shepard holstered her assault rifle, pulling out her favored heavy pistol.

Liara fired from the right; her shots ricocheted.

_**This is bad.**_ Shepard sprinted to the asari's side.

"The shield's kinetically sensitive! Energy and projectiles are bouncing off!" There was an echo of despair in Liara's eyes. Her two greatest weapons were useless.

"Looks like we're doing this the hard way." Shepard cracked her knuckles with a bravado she did not feel.

The bulky yahg slapped the floor, his kinetic barrier crackling.

_**This might sting a little… **_Shepard charged him, slamming his broad girth with her shoulder. Energy discharged, bright arcs sinking into her skin with painful sharpness. Good — it must be weakening the shield.

There was a low rumble that could have been surprise or amusement as he staggered back. She pressed forward, daring a punch to his ugly face.

Amusement turned to rage and he shoved her back. Undaunted, Shepard ran, launching herself bodily, her only objective to drain that damn barrier.

"My apologies, Commander." The Broker activated some sort of duragel shield and slammed her with it, sending Shepard tumbling down to the floor. "I have the highest respect for your capabilities."

A giant foot crashed onto Shepard's breastplate, pinning her to the floor. One good push could splatter her like a cockroach, but the Shadow Broker made no attempt to finish her. He leaned down, bringing his hideous face to hers, ignoring Liara's screams of rage and the ineffective bullets and biotic attacks she was inflicting in desperation.

"Join me. You are powerful, well-connected, experienced. You know Cerberus can and will betray you. The Alliance has abandoned you and the Council is too stupid to see the truth. Together we could salvage the essential aspects of civilization — save a few who we deem valuable — and prepare for the invasion." His breath billowed in humid gusts, heavy with the thick stench of putrefaction. "When all the weak and unworthy are purged by the Reapers, we will wait, safe, and rebuild when the storm is passed."

The weight of his foot was an iron vise around her lungs; Shepard coughed, hands scrabbling at his armor for a weakness, for a good grip, for anything.

"Broker!" Liara flung herself at the yahg, yelping at the pain of contact with the kinetic barrier. The light asari was an annoyance to the enormous Shadow Broker, who brushed her away easily. Shepard heard a heavy thump.

The weight lifted slightly — enough for Shepard to push out from underneath it. She rolled away and got to her feet, warily eyeing the yahg. He backed into a simple defensive stance, his orange shield raised, blocking any possible charge. Myla scowled, a sharp spike of anger heating her face. Was he seriously expecting a response?

A glance to the side made it clear that Liara was out of the fight, for the moment at least. She had to stall him… Shepard took a shuddering breath, clearing away the fury, the concern for her squad, and the distracting sense of urgency.

"I know it'll be hard to convince them all, to unite them, but it's got to be done. I have to try." She circled the center of the room, cautiously keeping him in sight in the event that his 'respect' proved a convenient device for attack. "The Reapers aren't immortal or invincible — we've killed one already. The only thing preventing us from defending ourselves, is doubt. Doubt that causes people like you to give up and turn traitor." She paused, giving her aching lungs a rest. His brow furrowed in a terrible glower, but she continued. "I will never back down from this fight because the only alternative is to die. If you can't see that —"

With a bellow of rage, the yahg shield-rushed her, pushing her back into the low wall that had served as her cover not long ago.

"Augh!"

He crushed her between shield and wall, leaning forward to increase pressure.

"It is regrettable that you could not see the wisdom of my course of action," he hissed in her ear, the metallic rumble of his voice sending chills up her spine. "When I've finished with you, I'm going to catch your little bird, the Normandy, and I am going to pull off her wings. Perhaps I'll recruit from her crew. Those who won't join me, of course, must be executed."

Shepard's spine felt like it was being fused with a mining laser, but she slowly inched her arms free of the shield, gripping the sides. He was too heavy to push directly back, but…

He pushed his face closer, the triple rows of piranha teeth gleamed sickly in the weak light. "I look forward to crushing the life from your precious pilot."

She shoved the shield as hard as she could to the right while desperately striving towards the left. Luckily, the smooth surface had little traction and slipped away from her with minimal pain. Thrown off-balance, the yahg stumbled, his unprotected back exposed. A dim miasma of silver was all that remained of his kinetic barrier, and Shepard threw herself at it, arms wide, trying to bleed whatever power remained.

The shield crackled and spat, discharging its last power in weak arcs that raced through Shepard, briefly triggering muscle contractions and spasms. Myla tasted blood before she felt her lip burn and her hair frizzed with the energy. The yahg wrenched her from his back and threw her, but she could tell that he was too late.

She watched the glass ceiling pass above her as she flew backward and fell to the floor. Coils of brilliant energy writhed behind the glass—a bowl filled with blue fire and lightning.

A torpedo of biotic power slammed him in the face — Liara was up and in the fight again.

"Shepard!" She cried, sending small missiles after the Broker — shots designed to distract and ward away, not to truly cripple. "Keep him in the center, I have an idea."

"You want me…" Shepard wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, wearily rising to her feet, "To rush the giant evil thing that could've killed me about five times over just now?"

Liara shot her a deadly glare.

"Just checking." Shepard forced her tired legs to work, driving herself into one final leap, bracing for impact and retaliation. This time, though, the Shadow Broker's defensive swing went wide and she collided heavily with his chest, knocking him into the center of the room, diving away at Liara's cry of triumph.

Shepard looked to her teammate as the asari summoned a veritable mantle of biotic energy and unleashed it at the glass directly above the yahg's head.

Before he could get out of the way, the glass shattered and a flood of charged plasma enveloped him, filling the air with a metallic stench. Myla felt an intensity build in the very air, a pressure that rose until her ears popped—the plasma, or whatever it was, consumed the Broker and then itself, leaving only globes of light that shone like will 'o the wisps before dissolving into ash.

Liara crossed the room, limping slightly, and helped Shepard up. Her expression was distant with shock and a tentative joy. "It's… it's over."

"Good plan, Liara." Shepard clapped her back gently, then turned to assist Garrus, but the turian had already extricated himself from the debris and was eyeing the shattered ceiling with concern.

"That's not gonna fall on us and kill us, is it?"

Liara laughed, energy returning to her face. "No, Garrus, it's—"

The power went out for a moment, then the bank of duragel windows—audio feeds, Shepard realized—sprang into a frenzy, contacts of the Broker calling in for assurance.

Shepard watched as her friend approached the array, as slender shoulders bowed then squared in resolve; as Liara became the Shadow Broker. Was this really the right solution? T'soni had been an information dealer for the past two years, but this… the scale would be enormous. The potential advantage was undeniable—all that data, influence, leverage… but Myla could never forgive herself if Liara's well-meaning assistance led to corruption or mortal disaster.

When the new Shadow Broker turned away from the array, Shepard knew Liara would resist the temptation. The brimming tears and visible exhaustion attested to her appreciation for the implications of her new position.

"Oh Liara…" Fear, sadness, and pity swelled, and Shepard stepped forward, embracing her friend.

….

Shepard felt an urgency, a restlessness that nagged her to move on, but she made sure that she and Liara had the chance to catch up. They'd both had a rough day, but Liara had just concluded a mission that had consumed her every thought and action in two years. Shepard made sure the asari was settled into the skeletal ship, then invited her aboard the Normandy for a period of decompression.

Myla tried to tidy up her cabin. The last visitor had been Chambers — she hadn't cleaned since then. She had just managed to clear the little low table and pour two glasses of red wine when her door hissed open and Liara stepped in.

"You look great." Shepard grinned at her friend, indicating the sleek amethyst dress she wore. "Is that for me or Yeoman Chambers?"

T'soni smiled and ducked her head reflexively, a dark cornflower blush tingeing her cheeks. "I thought it was customary to dress nicely when visiting friends."

Shepard straightened her formal tunic self-consciously. "I never asked before… what do you think of the new Normandy?"

Liara accepted the glass of wine Myla handed her with a soft murmur of thanks. "It really is a beautiful ship. I don't know much about… design or technical details, but it certainly seems less complicated than the SR1. I suppose since Cerberus helped build the original, they had the time and knowledge to propose and implement improvements."

"What's your impression of the crew?" They sat on the black couch.

"They seem quite friendly. Polite. They believe in you, Shepard." Liara's smile widened. "Especially Chakwas, Tali, Garrus, and Joker. It was wonderful being able to talk with them again. Although Joker did ask me if I had 'embraced eternity' lately…"

"Of course he did." Myla rubbed the back of her neck, but couldn't suppress a grin, "Sorry."

The asari cocked her head, scrutinizing Shepard's face, a wicked gleam coming into her eyes. "Back on Illium — before that, with the Mako, even — you _were_ flying pretty terribly. Perhaps you could ask Joker for a few tips on basic piloting skills."

"I doubt an air taxi or a landrover is comparable to a cruiser or a military frigate," drawled Myla. She scowled at T'soni. "Besides, my driving just _fine_."

Liara laughed. "Still, perhaps you could take the shuttle out sometime for some one-on-one attention from Mr. Moreau."

Shepard barely managed to avoid choking on the wine, feeling her face heat. "I don't think that will be necessary, Liara."

Blue hands patted the air reassuringly. "Alright, I will not pry. For the record, I'm happy for you both."

Myla decided not to pretend anymore. "Thank you. You're very perceptive — did you learn such intuition in your years as an information broker or has Kelly been teaching you?"

"It wasn't difficult to deduce, Commander." Liara swirled her wine archly, a mock-superior smirk curving her lips. "Especially considering the fact that you smile whenever he's mentioned. As for Ms. Chambers, she has been quite kind to me, and I would like to think that we have become friends in the hours that I have known her. "

"That's good," Shepard nodded sincerely, "We'll come by whenever we can, and when we do you're always welcome to come up and spend some time with everyone. Feron too. How's he doing, by the way?"

Some of the happiness left her round face. "He'll live. He was imprisoned for so long, Shepard. Tortured. He's lost a lot of weight. Muscular atrophy… But I think he's going to be fine, physically. I'm worried about…"

"Solipsism." Shepard finished, horror corroding her previous good humor. "He'll be forced to relive every moment in perfect detail." Any captive would have emotional, even psychological trauma, but a drell's unadulterated power of recollection would make things exponentially worse in the long-term.

"Yes." Liara looked in her lap.

They were silent for a few minutes.

"We have a drell aboard," said Shepard at length. "Thane Krios. Perhaps he could talk to Feron about… control, if that is possible."

"From what I've heard, it isn't." T'soni took a deep breath and looked up, staring into the soft blue light of the aquarium. "I wish I could help him."

"You did. You saved him. You did what you could." Myla knew that was little consolation.

Liara exhaled heavily, as if expelling her concern and weariness. "I can't believe it's over."

Shepard nodded. "If there's any way I can help you, just let me know."

T'soni waved a hand dismissively. "Thank you, but I think I'll do just fine in my new… job. It just seems incredibly lonely. If you're able to visit…"

"I will. Whenever I get the chance." Shepard promised, smiling encouragingly. "You'll keep me posted on anything to do with the Reapers?"

"Of course." Liara shuddered. "Goddess, I wish this wasn't happening."

"So do I," sighed Shepard, "But we don't have much choice."

The asari set her wineglass on the table, shifting to regard Myla fully. "How are you holding up? And don't give me the stoic façade you give the troops." Her clear blue eyes were sad and sympathetic, and somehow soothing.

Myla slumped back, remembering the overwhelming sense of resignation that she'd felt during the fight. The odds were bad, worse than bad, but she knew they didn't matter. "I don't see how we can come out of this, Liara. I just know we have to fight it. People are so… fragmented. I want to believe that we'll unite and manage to defend ourselves, but I just can't."

"You're not alone, Shepard," murmured Liara, shaking her head gently. "You'd be surprised how many people are on your side already. It's just a matter of contacting them, of organizing. I believe in you, your team and your crew believes in you." She pulled a small box from a pocket, handing it to Shepard.

"It's from Admiral Hackett. The Alliance hasn't given up on you either."

Myla opened the lid and saw the glint of metal. _**My tags…**_ She lifted them out, shocked. "How did…?"

"I… recovered them from your body," Liara dropped her gaze to her now-empty hands. "I thought…I thought you'd want them given to your next-of-kin."

Shepard drew her old dog-tags from their nest of crushed black velvet, feeling the cold chain slip across her fingers. "I don't have a next-of-kin. At least, no family. They were killed in a batarian raid." She felt the burn of on-coming tears, whether they stemmed from the unexpected gift or surfacing memories of her family was impossible to tell — maybe both? It had been a long day.

Hell, it had been a long three months. She sighed and pulled the tags over her head, giving Liara an honest, if tired, smile. "But thank you. For everything."

The asari nodded mutely, and they sat quietly again.

Shepard stared at the little circle of pale light caught on the surface of her wine, watched it wobble tenuously. Such a fragile thing, dependent upon so many factors. Her hands were steadier than average — _**Cerberus tech or a soldier's training? **_— but still, minute trembles caused black ripples to mar the golden disc. _**Nothing perfect lasts.**_

They'd been remarkably lucky so far. Lucky the Shadow Broker hadn't killed them, lucky the Collector engines took a while to come online, lucky Cerberus insanity was effective, lucky the bastard Collector vessel hadn't hit the SR1 full-on before anyone had managed to escape, lucky Sovereign hadn't crushed her as his body obliterated the burning skeletons of the once-magnificent cherry trees, lucky the freakish parody of Saren hadn't killed her, lucky the countless geth, pirates, bandits, raiders, thugs, gangsters, and assorted hostile mechs hadn't managed to grant her an ignominious death somewhere along the way, lucky, lucky, lucky.

Well, Shepard decided, if they ran out of luck, at least they'd have skill. As contrary as her new team could be, there was little doubt that they were the best at their respective fields. If they were able to make it through the Omega 4 relay unscathed, the Collectors would have a hell of a time avoiding destruction.

_**One enemy at a time.**_ The thought reminded her of Billy. She'd sworn to herself to focus on the bigger threats for the present, but he'd still need to be dealt with efficiently, and she didn't know the first place to start.

"Liara," she said slowly, catching her friend's arm. "I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

"After today? Anything, Shepard." The asari smiled.

"I need you to find a man named Billy." Shepard saw a frown of confusion crease T'soni's forehead, and quickly elaborated. "I visited a prison-ship a few months ago. Long story short, some twisted killer got out and sent me a very strange message. He might still be loose, and I think he's planning on killing a lot of people as some sort of display."

The pleasant calm that alcohol afforded did nothing to dull the sharp gleam of intelligence in Liara's crystal eyes. "Forward me his message. I'll see if I can trace it. I have access to more information than I'd ever dreamed possible, Shepard. We'll find him."

"Thank you." Myla leaned into the couch, feeling her muscles loosen, a slight sense of relief cooling her neck.

Their conversation turned from sober to casual, as Liara filled in the years of Shepard's absence, and Myla shared a few stories from the Academy.

After what had seemed like months of fighting, dread, and danger, it felt good to sit and talk with an old friend honestly. The wine (the regular stock—not Kelly's personal variety!) was mild and the adrenaline crash enhanced the effect of the tryptophan. When T'soni started yawning, Shepard sent her back for some long-overdue rest.

Cerberus cybernetics were not so easily influenced by a few glasses of alcohol, so the Spectre was sober when an irate Miranda demanded that it was high bloody time they set course for the Illusive Man's second supposedly derelict enemy vessel. Except this wasn't a Collector vessel that they could just run through and escape if it turned out to be a trap — it was a Reaper. If that thing was still alive, could it indoctrinate Shepard and her team before they could leave?

Even if they could get back to the Normandy, would the ship be able to get away before — Shepard shuddered, remembering the view from the Citadel arm, watching Sovereign plow through clouds of Hierarchy destroyers and Alliance dreadnaughts as if they were gnats. It didn't matter, though. The report had said that the Reaper was in a decaying orbit. If anything went wrong, the Normandy had a far better chance of escaping the gravitational pull than a slower Reaper, and she could damn well make sure the thing wouldn't climb out of its doomed spiral.

Still, she knew that crew had had ample time to prepare if it turned out to be another trap, and so she passed the word on to Joker. For better or worse, they were off.


	28. War Games

**A/N: Hello, all. It's been a long time, I'm sorry. I hope this extra long chapter begins to make up for my negligence. For all of you hoping for more Shoker-esque interaction, don't worry-there'll be plenty in the next one! Please R&R-I'm always trying to get better, that's why I'm here, and I'm afraid I've gotten rusty in my absence. Anyway, hope you like it.**

* * *

><p>Myla rested her head against the cool glass of her empty fishtank, letting the blue glow soothe her closed eyelids. It was quiet, this ship, her cabin, was so quiet, that she could just… think.<p>

Had she made the right decision? Would this last call be the one to doom them all? She didn't regret saving the geth — it was different, it had helped her. She didn't regret waking it — she sure as hell wouldn't let it be sent back to the Illusive man for experiments and whatever terrible things he'd had planned. But if there'd only been more time…

Talking with it, them, Legion… she hadn't really thought of the geth as sentient before. Here was an unknown factor, an ancient enemy of organics everywhere — she'd faced so many in the months pursuing Saren — and yet she couldn't shake the feeling that this Legion was as much a person as Kasumi, Thane, Grunt, Liara, or anyone she'd talked to before. Its mannerisms were unnerving, to say the least. Abrupt movements, precise and efficient. It never used more words than were necessary, and it didn't express any form of emotion that Shepard could recognize. A being of logic, of absolute rationality, whose religion was matrices and calculus, yet willfully opposed the Reapers, the Old Machines, despite the overwhelming odds.

And it had her armor…

**_Did I make the right choice?_** It, Legion, shouldn't have made her decide the fate of his kind — she had only known real geth for a matter of hours. She was a stranger, an outsider, a curiosity that it had been following across the years, and yet it had let her, told her, to choose for thousands of… people. A consensus could not be reached. An objective third party had to intervene.

But was she truly objective? Myla had unflinchingly killed hundreds of geth, the ones who worshipped the "Old Machines", in self-defense… sometimes just because she'd seen them first. Before Legion, she'd thought of them as drones, not…

_Their virus can be repurposed. If released into the station's network, the heretics will be rewritten to accept our truth._

Was it forced conversion? Indoctrination? The geth were a hive mind, sharing data and memories fluidly in a pool of instantaneous comprehension, pure thought. Legion had said that their thought processes were akin to mechanical calculations, that a mere .000001 meant the difference between allying with the Reapers and choosing to remain independent. Was that fraction of a number so crucial to individual identity, or was the virus like an argument, changing someone's mind through logic?

_573 favor rewrite, and 571 favor destruction._

If it had only told her more. If there was more time…

_The geth grant their fate to you._

What had qualified her to decide the fate of thousands? She was an organic — she didn't take the time to compute every little factor. She made irrational decisions, based on emotions, gut instincts. Sometimes they were the right ones. Sometimes… not. But what was this?

_Accepting another's path blinds you to alternatives._

Would she condone brainwashing all of humanity to believing in one god? No, but that was an irrational subject — it couldn't be decided by rational means. To convince a person of a singular path was possible, but it took time, and was a voluntary process. This… this was different, wasn't it? This wasn't an argument between two parties, this was bullying. She had forced a new ideology, a new way of thinking upon a group of people. A meddling organic arrogantly reprogrammed an independent synthetic organization.

_The minds of both forms of life can be shaped. Organics require time and effort. With synthetics, replacement of a data file is the only requirement._

Myla sighed deeply, pushing back from the aquarium. The heretics… surely a change in reasoning was preferable to total destruction? There was no way that the Reapers would simply allow their new pawns to forge a life for themselves, anyway. This choice, her choice, would enable them to survive, more, to reunite with their kind and begin to work toward a mutual future, to earn it. **_But that wasn't what they wanted._**

It would have been easier if the others had given their opinions more explicitly. EDI was the only other synthetic life form Shepard had known, whose advice was grounded in pragmatism. Mordin was no stranger to moral quandaries, and had always seemed to consider such dilemmas with an eye towards the future. Samara…what would the Code dictate for this kind of totality? Would the Justicar see Shepard's choice as a reasoned and selfless decision?

Was it selfless? Shepard sat heavily in front of her private terminal, staring through the orange screen. Had she rewritten the heretics because it was the "right thing to do", or had she succumbed to the undeniable temptation of having another powerful ally against the Reapers? She couldn't deny that the thought of synthetic forces to bolster defenses, to catalyze communication and retrieve valuable information would be tremendous assets in the war to come. But it was a risk. Anything that would make the geth stronger, whatever Legion's assertions, was a possibility of aiding an enemy. The quarian Flotilla would certainly see her act as a betrayal.

This one decision was more contentious to her crew than any before — she caught murmurs in the mess hall, whispered conversations that hung awkwardly in the air when she was noticed nearby. Even Joker, who was beginning to act more politely towards EDI, seemed like he'd rather she'd just have sold Legion off to the Illusive man or thrown him out the airlock. His post-mission quip had been barbed, to say the least. It had hurt, and they hadn't spoken since. She didn't want to ruin what they had over a single decision. If her choice would, in fact, come back to bite them in the ass, she'd prefer the added difficulties to genocide. They didn't see Legion the way she did — they were afraid of it. Afraid of him.

Her team was noticeably uneasy around him. Myla rubbed her eyes, weary of constantly having to balance the various idiosyncrasies, preferences, and prejudices of the dysfunctional rabble she had to lead into hell. If they didn't trust the geth, if they were actively suspicious of him, it threatened the success of the mission. She'd have to bridge the gap somehow, and quickly. She planned to go through the Omega Relay as soon as the IFF was fully installed — they'd made every conceivable improvement to the ship, their armor and weapons — they couldn't afford to have time for doubt or complacency. The rest of her team would have to be made to accept the geth as a companion and ally, if not a friend.

Shepard pulled up a miniature copy of the galaxy map on her holo projector. She cycled through the nearby systems, scanning for a suitable planet. Something that hadn't been developed, with varied terrain and no interference nearby…

...

She took the whole team down in the Kodiak, issuing the weapons she'd had specially modified on her last trip to the Citadel.

"Okay, everyone, time for a simple training exercise." It was a tight fit with all eleven of them in the passenger section, especially since Grunt had discovered the word "claustrophobic" and decided he liked it. Myla spared a quick envious glance towards the pilot's section, where Gainey was doubtlessly stretching his legs, but the shuttle bucked as it entered atmo, and an immediate snarling started up among her more rowdy charges.

"Listen up!" Her drill sergeant in the N7 program had a distinctive bark — harsh, yet powerful and able to carry through walls and over the sound of artillery fire — that Myla and a few other recruits had taken great pains to be able to imitate. All bickering stopped immediately, although Jack and Miranda still glared daggers at each other. Good enough.

Shepard hefted her modified assault rifle for everyone to see. "You'll get to fight each other in a minute. These weapons have been especially fitted for today's little outing." She opened the chamber and withdrew the ammo pack, cracking it open so that her team could see the bright green pellets inside.

"Projectiles — old-school ammo, but not bullets. Each pellet is filled with a phosphorescent liquid, like industrial paint, that will explode upon contact with your target. Aim for the body — not everyone has helmets." Zaeed coughed into his hand, jerking his head toward Miranda and grinning. She tossed her flowing black hair, sneering.

"Therapy, eh, Shepard?" Garrus's mandibles twitched in laconic amusement. "Well, some people need to vent by now, I'd guess. Months cooped up on the ship."

"It is peaceful," murmured Thane, steepling his hands. "Reflection, and meditation prepare the mind — no less essential in a fight than the body."

"It's practice," said Shepard. The shuttle shuddered again, but her team was intent upon her. "We'll divide into two teams and carry out a series of objectives. We don't know what kind of opposition we'll face at the Collector base, so it's best to go over the basics."

"Team Urdnot will crush the opposition!" roared Grunt, slamming his fists together. "We shall mount their heads on pikes and dine on their innards like the fearsome thunder lizards of Earth!"

Mordin leaned delicately away from the excited krogan. "That outcome would be counterproductive and inadvisable. Mission more likely to succeed if team members are… alive to attempt it."

"Agreed," Myla grinned. "No killing or maiming. If you have biotics, only use them defensively, and even then, no shielding from the paint pellets. No snares, traps, etc — if you get in hand-to-hand combat, incapacitate and subdue without significant injury. Chakwas is good, but she can't heal a broken bone in a couple days."

"How will the teams be determined?" Samara's gaze was level, her blue hands folded primly on her knees.

"The teams will change after every objective has been completed or failed, and there will be no negotiation." The whole point of this exercise was to get her group of talented individuals to become a cohesive team—if they were allowed to choose sides themselves, this venture would never work.

"Are defections allowed?" asked Zaeed casually, buffing a scorch mark on his armor.

"No defections, no traitors. If you think the Collectors will offer you a bounty or special privileges, we can easily give you a long-term vacation on this little planet. It sees about five ships per standard year."

They asked a few more questions, about the various safety rules and combat regulations, and she could sense their anticipation. Some of them, as Garrus had said, had been cooped up on the Normandy for a long time because their talents didn't quite compliment Shepard's, or their fields of expertise were unsuited for the respective mission. **_Everyone needs a little fieldtrip now and then,_** thought Myla wryly, **_if only to keep from shooting each other._**

Gainey's voice filtered back from the pilot's section. "Hey guys, just a heads-up. The magnetic fields of this rock are in some kind of weird flux. Probably just some heavy iron deposits, but it's screwing with my instruments and it'll make any trans-atmo communication pretty difficult."

"Acknowledged, helmsman," Myla considered. "After the drop, head on back to the ship. Retrieval in six hours." That should give them enough time to get used to each other and to get some solid practice in to boot.

The landing site was promising—this planet had lots of jungles and cliffs, and the air was dry but not overly hot. There was lots of cover, and several prominent landmarks for rendezvous points or defensive positions. The first objective, she decided, shading her eyes as she looked out to the horizon, would be to reach that stone bluff as a team. She divided them up quickly, without bothering to balance abilities—this was just a warmup. Still, she made sure to place Jack and Miranda on different teams.

"Alright. If you get lost, use your comm. We'll all be on the same frequency, so don't give away strategy, etc once we begin. No shooting, this is just a race. Remember, it doesn't matter who gets their first—whatever _team_ reaches the bluff gets the victory."

She hesitated a moment, looking out at the people she'd gathered to her impossible crusade. She wouldn't patronize them by designating leaders—they'd work that out for themselves. It was time to see how the chips fell.

"Go."

Instantly, everyone started running for the trees. No communication. There was a blue flare as Jack used a biotic wave to shunt Mordin, Tali, and Grunt off course, and her snickering rose above their remonstrations.

Myla sighed and slapped the side of the shuttle. Gainey could go back to the Normandy and have a beer or something. This might take longer than she'd hoped. She pulled on her helmet and jogged into the vegetation, resignation seeping into her heart.

…..

_"Shepard! Get on the left vantage point. Thane and Kasumi are trying to sneak around back!"_ Tali's sweet little voice rang out authoritatively, and Myla sprinted over obediently.

They were defending the bluff against Jacob's assault. Shepard, Zaeed, and Mordin had been assigned to the small plateau at the crown of the rock, and were providing cover and sniping for the ground forces. Grunt was pinned down by Samara and Jack — an odd pair if there ever was one — and Tali was holed up in the shallow cave behind him. Miranda had been taken out by Jacob a few minutes ago, and was sitting on a nearby rock, arms folded over a very noticeable green splatter mark, and pouting.

"I'm here, Tali," Shepard reported, taking up her new position. The jungle was dense on this flank - good cover for a small team of infiltrators, especially if, as Shepard suspected, one of them was using her tactical cloak despite orders. Fortunately, there was no wind, so the trick was to look for — a thick vine shifted in the scope, and a flash of black darted for the rock.

"Got him!" She squeezed the trigger and blossoms of neon green exploded about a foot from Thane. Arcs of blue energy crackled briefly as Kasumi's tactical cloak sputtered out, and she stamped the ground in irritation. The lucky shot made Myla smirk, but she still needed to take out the drell before he reached the natural blind spot. She adjusted quickly and centered the crosshairs on his abdomen, exhaling to steady her aim. A sharp zipping sound distracted her, and she looked up just in time to catch a pellet in the faceplate.

Bright green spread across the entire visor, and she heard laughter across the mic.

_"Oh Shepard, I don't think that's Alliance regulation."_ Garrus' voice was smooth and smug, if a bit fuzzy with static.

She lay down her sniper rifle in disgust, pulling off a glove so she could clear away the paint. "Tali, I'm down. Vakarian, was that you? You turian bastard, that's another drink I owe—"

_"Wish I could claim yet another victory over you, Shepard, but Legion is responsible for your newest decoration."_

"_Apologies, Shepard-Commander, we did not anticipate that you would change position."_

"Don't apologize, Legion, it was a good shot." Shepard grinned. Garrus respected the geth now, she could hear it in his voice. In fact, over the course of the day, Legion had proven his worth repeatedly, and had been instrumental in seven of twelve victories, two of which he had led himself. Whatever issues Jacob had had with Thane seemed to have been worked out as well — the pair had been on the same team for three "missions" in a row now, and there hadn't been a hint of animosity. **_Thank the gods for common enemies._**

"S'cuze me, Shepard, but I've got to do your job." Zaeed knelt over her and peered through his scope for Thane, cursing softly when it became clear that he wouldn't be found. There was another zipping noise, and the old merc rolled away, a vivid splotch coating his left arm. He inspected it critically, then looked to Shepard in a way that, had it been anyone other than the former Blue Suns leader, could only be called hopeful. "S'only a flesh wound. Only need my right, anyway."

Myla rolled her eyes, but nodded. Miranda getting taken out early was unlucky, especially considering they'd been the short team to start with. Besides, she had no doubt that the grizzled man would push himself to fight on even after losing an arm.

Jack's enraged groan was audible without the comm.

"Fucking baby krogan! Dammit!"

Since Shepard was "dead", she wasn't supposed to further involve herself in the fight, which meant that she couldn't change position to see what had happened to Jack, but Grunt's newest victory roar (he'd been practicing them all day) left little to the imagination.

"All enemies of Team Urdnot shall fall! They die, green guts spilling on the sands for the varren—"

_"A true warrior never takes satisfaction in victory, but in the pursuit of justice."_ Samara had gotten Grunt. That meant—

"_We're getting overrun! Snipers cover the front!"_ Tali wailed.

Zaeed and Mordin moved to the head of the plateau, presumably to shoot down at Samara and Jacob. The slim salarian was a crack shot with a heavy pistol, but something about long-range weapons didn't seem to click with him. He was muttering something to himself, at speeds too fast for Shepard to understand even if he'd spoken into the mic.

"Go for the asari," snarled Masani, nudging the doctor with his shoulder. "She's closer."

Shepard's forearm was covered in paint, but she'd managed to clear a respectable little window in her faceplate. Nodding in satisfaction, she lifted it up, but a slight scraping sound made her spin to look at the rear.

Thane lifted himself up quietly, so slowly and smoothly that Shepard wondered at his absolute control. Zaeed and Solus were intent upon the battle below them, firing far too rapidly for real accuracy. The drell had pulled himself up fully onto the plateau, and crouched for a moment, pulling his pistol from his belt. He looked over at Shepard and his full lips twitched into a ghost of a smirk.

She shook her head unable to keep from smiling.

"_I am hit."_ Samara announced her mock-death with as much passion as one would employ when remarking upon the unusually mild weather.

_"Garrus, Legion,"_ Jacob's voice was admirably steady — he had to know that his plan was close to succeeding. "_Come in and help seize the stronghold."_

Thane walked silently up to Tali's last two teammates and leveled his gun at Mordin's back.

_"Hey, Masani, what do I have to do to get your attention?" _Garrus was enjoying himself. There was a whine, and a green splat, and Zaeed slapped at his ribs reflexively as Thane pulled the trigger. Mordin yelped in surprise, and fell against the raised lip of the rock. Krios helped him up.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, I hold you in the highest regard."

Mordin brushed the back of his odd armor, examining the green paint on his fingers. "No offense taken, Krios. Stealthy approach — admirable. Will come in handy against Collectors. Only hope stain washes out."

"Goddam turian," Zaeed glared into the jungle, "There's no bloody cover up here."

_"Someone sounds like a sore loser."_

Thane bowed to the three casualties of battle, and disappeared down the side of the cliff. Shepard got up and joined Zaeed and Mordin, looking down at the field below. When they'd first found this "defensible post", the approach to the shallow cave had been fairly clear. Smooth hard-packed earth, with a few scattered boulders big enough for even a krogan to shelter behind. Now it was riddled with green spots and puddles so that it looked like an acid field from above. Footprints and biotic wakes had left gouges and sweeping tracks in the ground.

Mordin noticed Shepard's look of guilt. "Topical damage. No real impact on local ecosystem — perhaps will even encourage growth of vegetation near cave area. Lack of toxins in paint — harmless." He smiled and wiped his green fingers on her shoulder. "At least… think so."

Jacob had his back to the rock that Grunt had used for cover. The "dead" krogan was slumped on the other side of it, petulantly scoring the dirt with his shotgun nose. Garrus and Legion jogged out from the forest, and took positions to either side of him, weapons at the ready.

"Come on out, Tali. We'll accept your surrender." The Cerberus operative grinned. There was no cruelty in his voice, just a warm edge of pride.

"You'll never take me alive!" cried the quarian, humor and shame sharpening her accent. This had been the quickest match, but to be fair, her only tactical error was to send snipers up to a post without cover. The rest was just bad luck, but it happens.

There was a scuffle near the cave entrance, and Thane fell back, green dripping down his pale chest and onto his black jacket. Jacob, Garrus, and Legion spun out from behind cover, ready to charge the cave, when a small leaf-bound package sailed out, bursting open at their feet and covering them top to bottom in green paint.

"Take that, you bosh'tets!" Tali laughed, striding out of her cave, waving her empty pellet cartridge. The "dead" on both sides surrounded her, clapping her shoulder and complimenting her ingenuity. Shepard, the merc, and the doctor climbed down and joined the group.

Myla flicked Garrus's chest-piece. "Mm, Vakarian, I don't think green is quite your color."

He ran his claws down his front, gathering paint, and smeared it over her face-plate. "You're right, Shepard. It looks so much better on you."

"Nice going with the bomb, bucket-head," Jack high-fived Tali, grinning widely. The tattoos on her stomach were obscured by a layer of slick green paint — she must have gotten the business end of Grunt's shotgun at close range.

"Thanks, Jack," Tali's face was as inscrutable as always, but her body language was animated — excited and proud.

"An excellent improvisation, Creator Zorah," Legion regarded itself, head-flaps flaring in quiet alarm, "We suspect the fluid will impair the kinesthetic capability of this platform. Perhaps when we return to Normandy, Creator Zorah will honor this unit with maintenance assistance?"

"Of course, Legion," the quarian said politely. Shepard smiled. The two would never be friends, she thought, but at least they seemed to get along without trying to kill each other now, although that change was mainly one on Tali's part. Quarians were subjected to terrible discrimination when they left the Flotilla, and sweet little Tali had more than her fair share of it on her eventful Pilgrimage. Myla guessed it had taught her that a person's nature could not be surmised by their race, no matter how different or popularly reviled. It had taken some quick talking to keep her from shooting Legion earlier, but she seemed to have developed a grudging respect for the geth since then.

Miranda had apparently gotten over her disappointment at being the first to go down, and was teasing Jacob about his defeat. Grunt and Mordin were discussing the merits of technology in battle, and Kasumi was tinkering with her Omnitool. Probably trying to bring her tactical cloak back online.

Shepard rolled her shoulders, staring up at the golden sky. This was better than she'd expected — everyone was participating, their respective strengths were revealed and recognized, and nobody had tried to kill anybody else. They were able to come together as a cohesive unit, and if not necessarily as effective in any given incarnation, they still preformed as she'd begun to think they'd never be able to — as a team. Maybe one more round. For luck. Definitely not because she wanted to end on a personal win, no, that would be juvenile.

Shepard was about to divide everyone into teams again, when a burst of static hissed across the comm channel.

_"Shep—rew…the—mandy, bu—was able to…opy?"_ The signal was garbled, indecipherable, but sounded unmistakably like EDI.

Everyone stopped talking, straining to hear the faint message in their own headsets.

Myla pressed a hand to her helmet, hoping that if the speaker was closer to her head… "Come again, EDI? We couldn't read you."

"_I wi—temp…to boo—ignal—" _The static receded slightly, but the message was no clearer.

"Stand by, Normandy, we'll rendezvous for pick-up. Bad reception down here." Shepard was irritated, but tried not to show it. Her experiment was going so well, but… maybe they could go again tomorrow.

She turned to her team. "Pack it up people, we're going back aboard the mothership." The drop point was a long way off in the distance, but a cool-down run was good for building character. Besides, the sooner they were back, the sooner she could see Joker. Her pulse beat faster and she grinned, sauntering toward the tree line. "Last one to the pick-up zone has to pay off my tab on Omega."

She'd never seen people run so fast.

…

They waited for the shuttle, scouring clean their armor and weapons with handfuls of the dark coarse sand that floored the clearing, and discussing tactics and the most noteworthy moments of brilliance or stupidity that had occurred during the day's events. Shepard had finally managed to clean the worst off of her helmet, and sat back to enjoy the sight of her team simply getting along. This exercise had been more than a team-building outing, though. She'd wanted to see how they handled different combat roles, how they performed outside of their comfort zones, and the practice had proven very illuminating.

Garrus, as she had suspected, was a capable leader and a shrewd tactician. His first turn at command had been his last after his team demolished Samara's in a complex hostage-retrieval mission. His exploits on Omega as Archangel had hardened him, shown him the worst aspects of command and responsibility, but they had also given him experience in assessing the value in his charges and utilizing them to the highest degree of efficiency and effectiveness. Miranda possessed a similar talent at skill appraisal, but lacked the charisma and empathy necessary to inspire obedience. It was probably unintentional, but whenever she issued orders, it was with a tone of strong superiority which everyone, especially the more independent individuals such as Zaeed, Kasumi, and Jack in particular, resented.

The diminutive biotic also displayed an impressive ability to size people up and put them where they were best suited, but her style of command was unorthodox. She'd get results by taunting, threatening, and screaming, but always without arrogance. Jack didn't like authority, so she didn't presume to wield it, but she was passionate when she had an opinion and a plan, which was easy to follow. As far as strategy, though, she'd spent too much time fighting alone to command a large group with confidence, but that could change in time.

Shepard had expected Samara and Zaeed to be effective leaders, but surprisingly, neither seemed suited to the task. Samara was powerful and intelligent, but used to working alone and utterly unaccustomed to having to explain herself to others. She could see the most direct way to her objective, within the parameters of her Code, but seldom looked for alternate approaches, and was unable to connect to her charges on an emotional level. Zaeed Masani had once been in charge of what was arguably the most powerful mercenary group in the galaxy, the Blue Suns, but most mercs only respected strength and credits, and would follow any given orders blindly in pursuit of a paycheck. Some of Shepard's motley team required (and deserved) more information and respect, when possible, but the old merc didn't have the patience to "coddle a bunch of whining soft-foots".

Mordin was most comfortable in a support role, but he didn't hesitate to offer tactical advice and helpful observations. Tali had the mind and charisma to lead, but was in severe need of experience and the self-confidence that comes with it. Than had no interest in or experience with command, but was able to follow good orders unflinchingly. Grunt took every assignment with enthusiasm, but fought with breath-taking ferocity when defending a position or a teammate. Kasumi didn't like taking or giving orders — she was a thief, used to working alone or in small groups, and was best suited for infiltration or scouting, not the chaos of widespread battle. Jacob was a good soldier, a solid biotic, and fairly knowledgeable of textbook strategy, but lacked the certain fire and adaptability that was so crucial in a leader. Legion… well, he was an excellent sniper — probably the most accurate Shepard had ever seen — and made tactical decisions at blinding speeds, but was still painfully unused to dealing with slower, less logical organics. At least—

The shuttle was coming down, roaring through the air, and the copper sun glinted off its tinted windowpanes as it turned gracefully in its descent. Something about its movement was off. Shepard frowned, rising to her feet, unable to shake a sudden uneasiness.

It touched down a few yards away, sending sand billowing out in russet clouds from the force of the stabilizers.

"Great," sighed Jacob, stretching his arms behind his back, oblivious to the appreciative looks from Miranda and Kasumi. "I am starving."

"I wonder if there's anything edible in the mess," mused Miranda. The green paint hadn't come off with the sand; the dirt had stuck to tacky liquid and browned the color, so that it now looked as though she'd vomited down her chest. Her fingers brushed self-consciously over the stain as the group headed toward the shuttle. "Is there anything left of the luxury ingredients that Gardner hasn't gotten to yet?"

Garrus muttered something to Tali about the tragic lack of high-quality dextro-friendly food, but Kasumi trotted up beside Jacob, smiling like the proverbial cat with a mouthful of canary.

"I may have access to some bread, fruits, and cheese. Perhaps a little wine," she said casually. "Anyone interested can stop by my quarters later."

The shuttle door lifted, and, mouth tight with pain and shoulders bowed in grief, Joker limped out. People stopped talking; even if they hadn't had much contact with the pilot, they could see something was terribly wrong. His eyes fixed on hers instantly, and she felt a jolt of fear.

"Shepard… EDI said she —" his voice cracked and he licked his lips, looking away. Myla started towards him, half-hoping he'd never finish, that the horrible feeling in her gut was over nothing, but — "The Collectors. They took… everyone's gone."

Miranda and Jack swore in unison and Grunt let out a rumbling growl.

"Oh keelah," whispered Tali.

Shepard felt like retching. They'd tracked the IFF—there was no other explanation. They'd found the Normandy, boarded her… toyed with her. They'd taken — oh gods, Chakwas, Kelly, Gardner, Kenneth, Gabby — every face flashed in her mind's eye. The people who'd trusted her, believed in her, who she'd talked to, helped, liked, teased, ate with — all gone. Taken by those creatures for who-knows-what. She'd failed them.

Her knees wobbled. The Normandy was home — it was supposed to be safe from monsters.

**_They should have run,_** she thought, anger closing her throat. **_They should have run and left us here. This planet is uninhabited — they couldn't have known we'd taken a shuttle. If they'd only run and come back later…_**

She became aware of the rising clamor. Her team was asking questions, shouting, demanding. All angry, shocked, grieving — advancing at Jeff, who could do nothing more than hold his hands out against the onslaught of noise. Myla swallowed her own confusion, anger, and fear, and stepped up next to him, asserting control on the unstable situation.

"You'll have your answers soon," she said firmly, "But for now, everyone get inside the shuttle. Assuming the Normandy's clear—" she glanced over at Joker, who nodded once, still staring at his feet.

"We'll have a full briefing aboard the ship." She held each of them in her gaze, steady, strong, resolved, until she was certain her next words would reverberate in their minds and take hold, giving them an anchor and a goal.

"This isn't a tragedy. It's a challenge. We are going to retrieve our people. We're taking them back, all of them. Understand? Everyone." She scanned their faces, then, satisfied, stood aside and beckoned them in the shuttle.

They filed on quietly, some faces tight with rage, some blank with shock, or withdrawn to hide emotion.

Eventually, everyone had gotten aboard but Shepard and Joker. Myla touched his shoulder, suddenly realizing how he must feel. Hunted by Collectors through the ship he had loved, watching the others get taken, unable to stop it… **_How did he escape?_** **_Why did the Collectors abandon the Normandy? _**Shepard bit her lip, reminding herself to hold her questions.

"Commander, I…" his voice petered out, every inch of his body seemed to sag, weighed down by grief and… guilt? Her heart ached with pity and concern, but she needed him to hold together, at least until they were back on the ship.

"Lieutenant Moreau," she said sternly, and he instinctively straightened. "I need you to fly this shuttle back to the Normandy. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Commander." He hesitated, eyes meeting hers for a moment, but entered the Kodiak without another word. She followed him in, exchanging murmurs and reassuring nods with her team on the way to the pilot's section, sealing the compartment behind her.

Joker gingerly lowered himself into his chair, grunting softly with pain. Whatever had happened to him didn't affect his piloting skills, however, and the shuttle took off smoothly. The planet shrank away beneath them, dwindling to a hazy smear of green and brown and dusty blue as they passed through the atmosphere. The silence was awkward, but Shepard couldn't find the right words to break it. The Normandy pulled into view, and she didn't have to.

Jeff cleared his throat. "EDI said she couldn't reach you on the comm." He shifted in his chair, gaze fixed on the ship ahead. "I came as soon as I could."

"Thank you." Shepard sat stiffly in the copilot's chair, suddenly thinking of how empty the Normandy would be. No more chatting crewman, no ambient hum of activity… so still… so quiet. **_Like the dead Reaper._** She shivered, banishing horrible images of husks in Cerberus uniform dragging themselves along the Normandy's corridors.

"How did you escape?" she blurted; the silence only fueled her macabre imagination.

"I gave EDI control," he said simply. "The others, the others stalled the Collectors. Distracted them, while I crawled through ducts and snuck around." Hatred soured his voice. "I pushed a fucking button, that's what I'm good for." He raised his tortured eyes to her, helpless anger burning like a flame in their depths. "She flushed the ship — they'd already been taken, Shepard. I couldn't help them at all."

Shepard shook her head. "We still have the Normandy. That's because of you. We're going to get them back because of you and EDI." **_EDI… could she be trusted?_** Shepard had never really disliked the AI, but to have her in control of every function of the Normandy could be… no, they had bigger things to worry about. EDI could be trusted for now, Myla was sure, but when they went back to the Alliance, it would take some expert negotiation to prevent her from being wiped. "Are you okay?"

He rubbed a hand across his face wearily, and said nothing.


	29. The Best Kind of Promise

After the briefing, Myla was sure to check in with each and every member of her team. They'd holed up in their quarters for now, preparing themselves as best they could. None of them had wanted to wait, to take more time before mounting the assault, and they were all spending the travel time to the relay by contacting loved ones or immersing themselves in the personal rituals that every fighter develops.

Shepard walked through her ship, her home, painfully conscious of the way her footsteps echoed. So alone. A frigate of Normandy's specs was meant to house at least forty, maybe fifty at a time. Now there were only fourteen.

She ran her hands along the metal walls, feeling the cold hum in the Normandy's bones. So empty. She fought a sudden wave of sorrow. This was only temporary. They'd take out the Collectors and bring everyone back. She'd promised her crew, her team, herself.

She'd meant to go up to her cabin, to spend the spare hours polishing armor, cleaning weapons, to get her mind focused on the job, nothing else. She'd even laid everything out on her bed before making her rounds, but when she'd finally finished and got in that elevator, she found herself pressing the button for the command deck. She'd talked to every member of her combat team, but she'd neglected her pilot. Maybe she'd been subconsciously avoiding the inevitable emotional fallout.

_**Joker…**_ Shepard hit her head softly against the elevator wall. She'd wanted to defend him against Miranda, but the words just hadn't come. He'd saved the ship, made it possible for Shepard and her team to stage the coming attack, but if only he'd _left_ her when that monstrosity dropped out of FTL. If he'd just taken the Normandy far away from that damned ship…

No. She'd seen the logs, seen the scans that EDI had run automatically as the Normandy's crew were dragged screaming and bloodied — she shook her head. The sheer mass of the Collector ship that close to the planet's gravity well would have ripped the Normandy apart if she'd tried to jump. There was nothing he could have done. Just like the first time.

If anything it was her fault. She should have made EDI double- and triple-check that IFF, should have insisted on some kind of testing before it was installed. Instead she'd gone gallivanting off on some little training exercise. It was her fault the Normandy got hit, at least partly. These cockroaches kept catching them off-guard. They had thought ahead, had planned for this reckless suicide mission, and almost succeeded in snuffing out the resistance before…

_**It's our turn**_. Her regret solidified into resolve. This would be it.

She'd recruited the motley bunch TIM had wanted, she'd scraped planets bare of resources in half-baked attempts to reinforce the ship or squeeze a few more drops of efficiency from the Cerberus mechanizations, hell, she'd been in dozens of backwater systems at the behest of her high-maintenance team's personal issues. They were more than ready. She believed—_had_ to believe—that if they struck fast and hard so soon after what had clearly been an attempt to end her, they could wipe out that sordid race of puppets and get the crew back to boot.

Right.

She straightened, letting the weight of her responsibility settle over her shoulders. It was a familiar load, and the knowledge of her purpose made it comforting. She didn't have time to whine about what had happened—the past could not be changed, but she sure as hell had a say in her future.

The doors opened, and Shepard strode forward. He had to know it wasn't his fault. He had to know she still believed in him, still trusted him, still… Memories of his green eyes, bright with his usual wicked humor and not dead with grief as they had been just an hour earlier, sent a shiver of heat down her spine to pool pleasurably in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't let him sit up in that bridge for two hours, alone, to think about whatever horrors he'd seen.

The walk to the cockpit felt longer now that there were no nav assistants cracking jokes or scrambling to minimize their extranet windows as she passed. She jogged, suppressing the uneasiness at the alien sight of so many empty chairs, at the absence of human sound. _**Only temporary,**_ she thought, fixing her eyes on the pilot's seat. _**We'll get them back.**_

He heard her coming, of course. Her footfalls pinged out, echoing tinnily in the silence. He swiveled his chair to face her, but again he avoided looking her in the face. The sight of his shoulders slumped so dejectedly, of his brow furrowed in utter guilt, made her stop short.

"Commander." His voice was small, and the reedy quality that she had always loved made it break easily. She wanted to stop whatever was so clearly paining him to say, but again her words failed her and she could only watch. "Sorry about the crew and…"

_**It's not your fault,**_ she wanted to say, but she hesitated. She'd never seen him so broken—when he'd told her about his torment in the years of her death, he'd still had that slight edge, that intangible energy that rejected pity. This…this was something different, something awful, and she didn't know how to make it better.

Her dismayed silence roused a measure of defiance in him, and he shifted in his seat, glaring up at her suddenly.

"You know what? I'm not sorry!" The anger seemed to give him strength, and she took an unconscious step back against the outburst. "What the hell were you doing leaving us out here where Collectors can work us over?"

He was blaming her. Her loyal pilot, her fellow soldier, her old friend, _Joker_ was blaming her. It wasn't that she didn't accept responsibility for the stupid oversight that lost them so many, but she had never expected to be outright accused, least of all by—

"Because you know what, I should… I should just go." He must have seen the hurt on her face, because his gaze slipped guiltily away. His words slowed, thickened with bitterness, but they didn't stop, and each one felt like a slap in the face. "Next port…I should just get the hell out of here."

Where was this coming from? She felt tears coming, but swallowed them, defensively shutting down the part of her that was vulnerable to his attacks. She didn't need this right before a fucking suicide mission—he had to get his act together. Shepard opened her mouth to let him have it, but a smooth and pleasantly feminine simulated voice beat her.

"_You don't mean that Jeff."_ EDI's absurd holographic avatar bounced up from her console. Was she trying to soothe him? Myla bristled. She could take care of herself, and she could damn well take care of him. Besides, Joker wasn't exactly fond of the little—

To her surprise, he sat back sheepishly, darting an apologetic glance up to her before addressing the softly glowing blue figure. "I…no, but it…it felt good." He shook his head, blowing out a heavy sigh as if ridding himself of all the guilt and pain that had prompted the uncharacteristic rant, and flashed a weak half-smile up at Shepard. "I'm sorry Commander. Okay, I'm ready, I'm good. I'm ready to save the day."

Surprise turned to indignation. Why the hell did he listen to EDI all of a sudden? And did he really think she'd just let that go?

"Are you sure? There's nothing else you want to get off your chest?" She snapped, hating that stupid smirk. "Feel free to speak you mind, Lieutenant."

He frowned again, "Look, I'm just sick of getting blamed—"

"I wasn't blaming you!" She felt stupid, standing here. She didn't know what to do with her arms, so she folded them, glaring at him. "You're right, it was my fault. I don't blame you at all. Miranda wasn't thinking, and everybody knows we're lucky you were able to take back the ship."

"Okay, yeah…I'm just under a lot of stress—" He looked away again, and it enraged her.

"We're all under stress! We're all pissed and scared, Joker." She wanted him to look at her, wanted him to see how much she needed him to be _Joker_, not whoever had threatened to abandon her. "We've got to do this, and you can't just flip out on me!"

"I know, okay?" He gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles white. "We're going off on another impossible mission that no one expects us to come back from—it's like a walk in the park for you. This is what you do. This is what you live on."

He reset his cap, fingers slipping in his agitation, but the anger in his expression was turning to desperation. "You'll go in and I'll just _sit_ here and wait for you to finish saving the day. I'll just sit and watch like always while you and those crazy bastards you call a team go into hell and try to come back."

His voice lowered, the brim of his cap shadowed his face. "I'll sit. And I'll wait. And I'll watch. Up here, alone, until you're done shooting all those creepy-ass bugs and bring Chakwas and Chambers and everyone back."

He raised his head, eyes finally meeting hers, and she saw the fear in them. "You know, if…you…"

The anger drained away, and she felt tired again. "I know." She couldn't promise to come back. She couldn't promise to save even one crewman. She couldn't even promise that they'd make it through the relay.

She thought of how it would be for him, up here alone and unable to help, forced to watch the helmet feeds. The ship would be silent around him, bare and empty, the vast spaces would echo the utter nothingness until it filled his head, pressing against his shoulders, as he watched his friends die. Maybe she'd go down. Maybe he'd see it—she could be crushed or shot or, or…If their places had been reversed, could she do that? Watch the people she'd been pledged her future to, the people she'd—Shepard shook her head, feeling a hot tear slip down her cheek. It would be easier to escape and try not to think about it, to spend every day telling herself they'd made it out just fine and that they wouldn't want to see her anyway, just pretend that everything turned out like the vids.

"Joker…" She couldn't think of anything to say, but he could see that she understood, and the knowledge was raw and painful between them. The silence in the cockpit, in the ship, was deafening.

She needed to touch him, suddenly, to know that he was real, that he was there, and placed her hands on his, at first tracing the lines in his palms, then moving up the pale skin of his forearms. He leaned forward, gently clasping her shoulders. She looked at him questioningly, and he nodded once.

Myla sank down, carefully straddling him, and knocked her forehead against his. Her eyes closed. She felt the hat push up and away, and felt his body heat mingle with hers. Instinctively, she turned her head and kissed him softly, just savoring his taste and proximity. His hands ran down her back, settling at her hips and pulling her more snugly against him. Her pilot's touch sent shivers of warmth down her spine, and she was acutely conscious of how their bodies were separated by only a few centimeters of Cerberus uniform.

She gasped softly in surprise when he slipped a hand under her shirt, fingers splayed over her ribs, and opened her eyes. His gaze was level, and his mouth twisted in a sad smile. Green eyes asked for permission, and she kissed him again in response, harder, insistently, feeling the sick giddiness again in her gut. She pushed against him, reaching down to untuck his shirt, reveling in the trails of fire his hands left on her back.

Maybe this wasn't what she had imagined, but she needed him to…to what? Have something to remember her by if she didn't make it back? To be her anchor to humanity, the last sweet instance of physical contact before diving into chaos? Myla shuddered in pleasure as he traced a finger over the vulnerable skin behind her ears with the softness of a whisper. This was more than lust, but was it—_**We may not have time for more.**_

She'd made her decision, and grinned, letting go of her last inhibitions. She shifted for a better position, and pushed his hat off with one hand, running her fingers through his surprisingly soft dark hair. He winced at the same time as she found a swollen knot at the back of his head.

"What-?"

"I'm fine." He shrugged, grinning.

"Are you-?"

"I'm sure!" He leaned forward, silencing her with a kiss, and she dropped the subject, pushing back to take her shirt off. They didn't have a medical doctor at the moment—she didn't feel comfortable asking Mordin anything health-related after he'd mentioned the liver-thing—and if he said he was fine—

She heard him hiss in pain, and glared at him critically.

"If you're hurting, I can find some medigel."

"No, I—" he shook his head, and shifted his weight in the chair, and a spasm of pain flashed across his face. "Shit!"

She eased carefully off of him, clenching and unclenching her hands uncertainly. "What is it? Did I…"

"Mm, not you." He tried to smile, but winced again, and she folded her arms. Her initial disappointment was quickly replaced by concern. "I think it's my ribs. I landed pretty hard back in the Core."

"Idiot!" He should have said something—you don't mess around with ribs. One stupid move, and you could puncture a lung, or—she stopped that train of thought cold. "How bad is it?"

"_Vital scans would indicate hairline fractures on three pericardial ribs."_ She'd forgotten about EDI, and flushed. Having an AI watch your awkward attempts to—

"See? It's fine." Joker's protest was only half-hearted; he could see she wouldn't risk hurting him.

"EDI?" Shepard picked her shirt off the floor, trying to reclaim her "command dignity". "Is there anything we can do to treat the Lieutenant's injuries?"

"Oh, so now we're pulling rank?" He muttered, reaching for his hat. Myla snatched it up before he could get it, and put it firmly on her own head.

"_In the case of subjects with Vrolik's disease, rib fractures can lead to actual breaks with little inducement—"_

"It's mainly my legs," he mumbled bitterly, swiveling the chair to look out at the blue ripples of FTL travel. Myla stood behind him, and put a hand on his shoulder. Of course she wished it hadn't happened, but that couldn't be helped. She'd never thought less of him for having Vrolik's, and this was just a…speedbump.

The AI continued, at a slightly softer decibel level which made her sound gentle. "_A nano-injection of medigel directly into the fracture site is the typical procedure, but as no one aboard has been trained in such operations for humans, I would not recommend it."_

"Listen to her, please," he mocked desperation, gripping Shepard's hand with a grudging playfulness. "Don't go all_ independent _and stick me. I hate needles."

"Anything we can do, EDI?" Myla repeated, pinching his ear and smirking.

"_Rest is highly advisable, Shepard,"_ the AI said primly. "_Jeff should avoid agitating the fractures further. I would caution against further sexual advances, Shepard."_

"Yeah, but what does she know, right?" He grinned sarcastically up at Shepard, and she leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"Later, when you're healed up."

He snorted, and she tapped his nose sternly with a finger. "I promise."

"Really?" He tried to get the hat back, and she made it easy on him, plopping it down on his head affectionately. He still seemed depressed.

"I'll drag you upstairs myself, if I—"

"_Shepard, I have intercepted an anomalous transmission."_

"What is it, EDI?" Shepard sighed. The ship e-mail didn't even filter spam, and now the AI was interrupting her time with Joker for what was probably another Prothean chain—

"_It is a recorded vidmessage."_

"From Liara? Who'd send me a vidcall?"

"_The transmission was coded for Doctor Solus's personal communication channel. I judged the contents to be…inappropriate to relay without your approval."_

That got her attention. Since when did EDI have the…autonomy to decide whether a message reached its intended recipient? She realized with a chill just what a threat an unshackled AI could constitute—a force that had control of a ships systems, capable of cutting off all contact with the outside world, of opening a few airlocks and flushing out the pesky organics, of…no. EDI would never. She'd proved as much with Jeff, and she'd never indicated any—Message. Right.

"I'll take it in my quarters, EDI. Thanks." Jeff started to protest again, but she gave shot him a stern glare and he let it go. She squeezed his shoulder gently in goodbye, mentally promising to come back after checking out the vidmessage, and jogged back down the walk, past the empty seats, past the unattended Galaxy Map, and into the damnably slow elevator.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Yes, the title is a reference to the cheesiest line in the new Spiderman movie. Sue me. Anyway, glad to be back, and I missed you. Hope this is a good fix for everyone who wanted more Shoker-the next is, as you probably guessed, very Billy-centric. Originally, I was going to have it as the same chapter, but given the...very different content... I decided to split it up. Next coming very soon. As always, I hope you liked this, and if you have any questions/comments/advice, please feel free to post it in a review or message me. I can't bite over the internet.**


	30. Witness

If there was one thing she actually liked about the change in technology since her death, it was the modification of vid-communication. The holoscreen in her room was large enough to actually see the person she was talking to, and the feed was generally clear enough to provide detail in case diagrams or blueprints, or technical specs were being transmitted. It was so much easier to understand something when you could see it, and talking to a hologram was a lot easier on the sanity and the image than screaming up at a microphone on the ceiling and listening with the intensity of a conspiracy theorist (which, according to many, she was) to a disembodied voice.

Also, because she could take calls away from the Galaxy Map, she was able to multitask.

"Okay EDI," she sat down on her bed, pulling her breastplate onto her lap and starting to scrub off some of the scummy paint residue. "Play vidmessage, please."

"Time signature indicates that this was sent two-point-six standard hours ago," said the AI smoothly as the holoscreens stuttered to life. "Because it is recorded data, however, the time of the event depicted is uncertain."

Shepard opened her mouth to ask the AI if it had already viewed the message, but at the sight of the kneeling figure resolving on the 'screen made the words catch in her throat.

A man, medium build, knelt in the center of the feet. His head hung low, but he was clearly gagged, and his arms were pulled tightly behind him. The peripheral was dark—it was impossible to tell where he was, but there were dark smears on the floor. Judging by the stains on his white coat, they were streaks of blood. It was silent. After the initial shock, Shepard snapped to, falling back to half-remembered hostage crisis training from her days at the Academy.

"EDI—try to trace the message. Location. Coordinates. Anything." Resources, what resources did she have? "Send a copy of the message to Liara."

Shepard didn't hear the AI's acknowledgement—she was focused intently on the picture, trying to glean some clue, some useful hint that could lead her to…This was meant for Mordin. Blackmail? Revenge? He'd been part of the STG, one of the task force that had condemned the krogan to…no, as much as she respected Wrex, the average krogan would just kill its target, or leave the heads of loved ones at his or her door and then shoot the poor sould who came out to investigate. Krogans wouldn't be so indirect.

Could the salarians have learned about what happened on Tuchanka? Was this some kind of bid for the data she'd persuaded Mordin to keep? What—

She jerked back as a pale face flashed from the side of the screen, dominating the picture. Wide, wide eyes, dark, stared intently at her, and she felt an instinctive fear as the ragged noise of breath crackled out of her 'screen's speakers. The features were distorted by proximity to the camera, but it was clearly a human face. Male, judging by the bone structure. But who—

"This message," the face licked its lips and grinned shyly, as if pleased with itself for providing an introduction. "This message is not for the salarian doctor." He—it was definitely a masculine voice, if high-pitched—paused, breathing heavily through his nose. "Doctor Solus…if you, when you get this—" he pulled back, a short, slender man with a knife in one hand. His fingers on the offhand were twitching, and his movements were uncertain, but the knife was steady. He stood next to the captive, tapping the flat of the blade against his thigh. The man on the floor flinched, but still didn't speak, and didn't raise his head.

"When you get this, Doctor Solus, heh," the man straightened, a wide smile splitting his pale face. "Send this to the—" his face darkened, and he glared down at the ground for a second, embarrassed, but quickly composed himself, staring back up at the recorder with an intense determination. "Send this to Commander Shepard."

Her name sent an electric pulse crackling up her spine. Who-? How did he know they were connected? Cerberus defector? But the Lazarus cell was practically wiped out—

"Shepard," the man exhaled her name with a raw swell of emotion that sounded like it was ripped from the depths of his being. Fear, reverence, hate…she swallowed, uncomfortable as she automatically identified the torrent of emotions she heard in that simple utterance. She had never hated the sound of her name so much. This was very very wrong. She felt a tremor of panic as he moved toward the hostage, but consciously knew that she couldn't help, that this had been prerecorded—months ago, for all she knew.

"Shepard," he repeated in an intimate whisper, and she flushed. "There is so much I want…to tell you. You cannot imagine how very…grateful I am. I want," the man glanced down to the hostage, smiling eagerly, then back up to the recorder. "I want to show you so much. We are meant to meet, you and I. Bodies in motion, in space and in time…we are destined to collide."

"Others," he shrugged irritably, glaring down at the man beneath him, "others are not worthy of your presence. This…man…he saw you with his eyes, spoke to you, framed your name with his tongue." His breath came rapidly, sped with his onset of fury. The knife shifted in his hand, and Shepard's fists clenched reflexively.

He gripped the other man's short brown hair, but changed his mind, letting go and moving back to the camera. He stared through it, and despite herself, Shepard felt that he was in the room with her, demanding her attention and her thoughts and her presences with those black eyes. She shuddered.

"You saved me, Shepard." He breathed, and the picture shook, peripheral scenery shifting as he pulled the recording device with him, back to the kneeling man. "You were my salvation, and…I am so grateful."

Something began to fall into place, some unconscious plate was shifting, grinding into position.

"I promised you, Shepard. Commander." He smiled nervously, eyes anxious. "Shepard. I promised you."

Shepard stood slowly, armor falling from her lap onto the floor with a loud crack. No. This was different.

"I told you I would show my appreciation," he grinned into the recorder, something feral taking over the tentative quaver in his voice, turning it harsh.

This wasn't right. The message was so different—

The man angled the recorder closer to the hostage and took hold of his hair again, shooting one last look over his shoulder. "Shepard. Thank you."

He yanked up the man's head, and Myla felt her insides freeze. The eyes were gone—dark bloody pits gaped out from the captive's pale face, and trails of dried blood caked his cheeks. A broken sobbing filtered through the speakers, and the knife flashed, cutting away the gag to reveal an open, gasping mouth, glimpses of teeth, and a dark stump where the tongue should be. Strangled cries, horribly warped by the mutilation and the static of the feed, assaulted her ears, but the torturer's whisper came through clearly.

"I told you, Shepard." His voice was trembling with pride. "I told you."

The recorder lifted, focusing on the wailing man's forehead.

"This is for you, Shepard."

She watched, unable to turn away, as Billy fulfilled his promise. She listened to the poor man's screams build to a shrieking intensity, and listened to his silence after the deed was done.

She owed him that much.

It was her fault.

It was her fault.

"Shepard." Billy filled the camera, eyes lit with hunger. "Come to me. I am Worthy. Come to me."

The screen went black; the message ended.

Shepard sat back on her bed. She felt very cold. She felt very still inside.

It was her fault.

_**There was nothing you could do.**_

Her eyes fell on the pieces of armor, still coated with that ludicrous paint from what seemed like a millennia ago, and she slowly pulled a shoulder greave to her.

It couldn't be helped now. She couldn't go back to Purgatory and hunt the bastard down. She was on a mission to reclaim her crew and avenge thousands, if not millions of humans. Billy had to wait.

But not for long. She shut down the inner part of her that was screaming. She had a job to do. She had people to save. Hysterics and guilt had to be put aside for when she didn't have the future of an entire race on her shoulders. She had to be strong, she had to be smart.

"_Should I forward this to Doctor Solus?"_ EDI's cool inquiry cut into her thoughts.

"EDI, what…? Gods, no." She shook her head vehemently, scrubbing at her armor as though it would erase the images that were burned into her retinas. "Keep it in my files."

She moved on to a shin guard, flakes of dried paint falling on her black pants with the weight of a whisper.

"Send Dr. T'soni another message," said Shepard, closing her eyes. "If we don't come back through that relay… I want that man dead."

"_Message away, Shepard."_ EDI's voice held no judgment, no emotion.

Shepard inhaled slowly, pushing Billy down, down, deep into a place where he wouldn't interfere with the mission. The mission. The Collectors. That's all she should be thinking about.

She felt a pang of regret for Joker, sitting alone in the cockpit, but filed him away too. If she was sloppy in the Collector hell she was diving into, she'd have a lot more to be sorry for.

The mission.

We can do this.

_**We have to.**_

* * *

><p><em><strong><strong>_**A/N: I'm sorry-I didn't mean for this to happen to Daniel, it just...it felt more Billy's style, and I wanted to set up sort of the emotional conflict between them. Ugh. Anyway. Let me know if anything strikes you as particularly strange, or if you think I need therapy. Again, I'm really busy with college, so I probably won't update for a while, but thank you for sticking with me. As always, if you r&r, I will send you a mental hug and eat a cookie in your honor. Okay, I'm going to try to sleep now. Good night.**


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